Shelf Life

I lost the list

of what to do when you die.

It’s folded in a book somewhere,

as if I could read.

Was I supposed to tell the birds,

the cat?

My private, practiced, grief

has already stained the mirror.

I broke a fancy plate,

passed it off as being clumsy.

It’s not that anything is imminent,

surprise, even anticipated,

is it’s own jolt.

The math is scary,

complicated, x equaling

a minus, accumulating clouds

lining silver.

I’ll stop locking the door,

what comes in by window,

welcome. The big rock,

in the heart of my truck,

has a space for names.

Will SchmitComment