they’re all standing
around you
and a bugle or a trumpet
(i guess i don’t
know the difference
and anyway i wasn’t
paying attention
to that, really)
sounds the taps
and everyone is silent.
i’m sniffing the air,
and turning in circles
on strawberry hill
overlooking the severn,
picturing you there,
as if the view of the river
is yours and not ours,
thinking: yes,
this feels right for you.
but the expressions
on the faces around me
mirror my own,
and i’m reminded
that nothing about this
is right for you, really.
i touch your casket
with my fingertips
and wonder when they stopped
lowering it into the ground
in front of everyone,
or if that’s just something
i’ve only ever seen in the movies.