I waited for the argot of the grieving.
Most of the initial talk carried on in
tones of condolence—sincere attempts
to ease the sting after the thief’s slap.
Yet most of it kicks against the pricks.
But last night my widowed mother stood
in the shadow of her father-stolen son,
the two of us hesitant to spring clocks
forward for our deepest wish is to fall back.
The little things’ll make me miss him most.
She gingerly unfolded an ad she’d torn
from the Sunday paper revealing a leather
vest—the kind Wayne wore, cut for a big man.
She thought to order it for him, a surprise.
We didn’t see time changing so quickly.