I can’t help it
the triggers are everywhere
an ambulance moaning by
a missed phone call
a sock of his
slumped over a chair
first I picture how it would happen
the details ambush my mind
painting it all
before I can stop it
on the inside
of my eyes
and then I imagine the after
the chewed up hull
of my being
the service
and the things I would try
to say
the hate I would aim
at the things
that still exist
like his quiet chair
his chipped mug
I park the car
and I can see him inside
talking on the phone
pacing and eating whatever
he can spoon from the fridge
there has been no fire
no heart attack
just a phone call
he couldn’t get off
perhaps his agent
or his dad
there is no cure
for this daily trip
to the edge
only my hand
on his warm
perfect face.