The first job you take after your wife dies suddenly
will be mindless, easy to manage, with flexible hours:
the job you've spent your whole life avoiding.
It bores you to tears. You think, Ten hours a week
and it doesn't even cover the therapy, pills, and gas.
The clerks at the all-night grocery rotate shifts:
sunflowers shrinking into the vase on her desk,
an altar of trinkets, her photo in a simple frame.
In the end, what more is there to say
about these long afternoons when the sun
stands solstice in between the coming and going,
you in your black t-shirts and stain-resistant chinos,
as whole weeks announce the end of summer,
a full moon dimmed by the glow of the city,
these nights when the neighbors fire great floodlights
at the lawn beneath their windows?