Poems About L

I know your tired. Not the kind that sleep fixes.

They asked me to say something. As if the right words exist.

Loneliness is not being alone. I want to be clear about that.

Being in love is the thing that comes after the fireworks—the quiet drive home with the windows down and someone's hand on your knee.

When you stand in front of everyone you know and a few people you don't.

The first year after someone dies is a minefield of ordinary things. Their coffee mug. Their side of the bed.

Other men describe their wives like cars they've owned too long. I refuse.

There was a morning— I don't remember which one— when you walked into the kitchen and I looked up.

You never asked for a day. That's the most father thing about you.

You didn't have to. That's the part I keep coming back to.

I want to say the thing you already know but haven't heard out loud—the thing that sits in the back of your chest like a fist that forgot to open.

We took the same route. Past the mailbox you always had opinions about.