Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
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They have moved the table where we wasted every Thursday. The new chairs are yellow.
The machines keep count of something— not life exactly, more like the argument life makes
The first year after someone dies is a minefield of ordinary things. Their coffee mug. Their side of the bed.
The eulogy is the hardest poem: you must condense a life into minutes, make a room full of crying people laugh at least once.
The new hand does not remember. It learns. Cup first.
Bring nothing. Bring your body and your coat and a tissue you will find
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