what i remember of a wake and a funeral (for billy woodz who had no black pants so he wore navy blue)

i'm wearing dark jeans at the wake with my ex-girlfriend at her
mafioso dad's friend's see-off
feeling weird and out of sorts

days later we take limos and towncars
eat at a preposterous italian buffet and
push food around plates with dozens of strangers
bust out for mostly silent smokes in the
significant and cold queens air and
return to plates no less
abstract and insecure

and a lot of it is lost in this weird shamespace
memory contradicting life shifts and
scattered homeostasis

tugged shirts
desperate teen lust and
lies and sadism and dreams and
contradicted elements

so, basically, lost time

but when i return i am at a chilly fall season
stage is a
grassy vista over dozens of embedded concrete
stones like choked pills dotting land i might never
re-tread or stumble by

and it's me
throwing dirt on an unknown casket
placing a flower down (they
said this was a nice
gesture)
staying silent
standing next to her
breathing
mixing in the gracious family i won't speak to for
over a decade
to this day

unknown in the cruel sun
i could be the interloper
walking with you
as far away from you as
now
walking with me
as far away from me