sometimes our lives are
more than just that,
and saturday afternoon funerals are
not closure enough.
we'd wait on the porch one cloudy november,
not thinking not moving just wondering why
that stinging nostalgia so blatantly missing was
just--
that

they tell us, baby doll, you wouldn't
want your last memory to be such a memory,
but they don't know what our last memories
were. we wake up in the mornings to dark rooms and drawn curtains,
the only things we see are rows of grave markers
in stark contrast to our pasts
and they think (they know) they've
given us closure.

today (tomorrow) is just another 24hours of our lives.