Michael Passafiume

grief

is a wrinkled hand that’s all
knuckles.

is stepping out of a long
line at the coffeehouse because
the line to weep in a nearly
forgotten corner of your mind
is much shorter.

is a senile black poodle
you sometimes miss more
than your suicided wife
and the cold truth of that makes you
wonder if you shouldn’t have
followed her example.

is a radio that plays nothing
but static 24/7,
volume either too low
or too high.

is an army of ghosts marching in-step
behind you everywhere you go;
at night they take up all
the room in the bed as you lay there
wondering why you can’t
get to sleep.

it’s a daylong symphony
of ambulance sirens playing
to barren streets,
early evening chorus of pots & pans
toasting those who’ve survived another
tour of an invisible war.

it’s avoiding the supermarket
on a Sunday afternoon
because it’s that unassuming box
of Shredded Wheat that just might
break you.

it’s a scene in a medical drama
reminds you of the poetic irony
of trying to breathe life back
into a corpse.

it’s a revolving door that opens
up to a down escalator that leads
to a revolving door that opens
up to an up escalator that leads
to a revolving door that--

it’s walking down the sidewalk
to the thrum of nearby traffic,
people passing left, right,
children zipping by
as the cats & dogs watch you
as the birds & insects watch you
as the sun & clouds watch you
as the moon & stars watch you --
everyone & everything moving
forward.

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Michael Passafiume is a Brooklyn, NY-based writer who received his MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles. His work has appeared in Black Heart Magazine, The Louisville Review, Madcap Review, Meat for Tea and Welter Online, among others. His chapbook, “archipelagos,” is available from Blue Hour Press. He occasionally tweets from @passafiume.