They die
just like in the movies
pop
gone
and the ones left behind
grieve like they have
no skin
yet somehow
in the broken glass
of this new day
they must also hum
and haw
about sensible things
like the fonts
on the funeral program
and would she want a bench with a quote
and what should I do
with her socks
her bank account
her unfinished novel
I wonder
if they don’t look down at us
with pained smiles
not pity exactly
just the futile wish
we weren’t so pinned inside
our own loops
the way we feel
about our younger selves
when we think back
to those decisions
we made as children
breath held tight
contemplating choices
big as monsters.