You are fifteen years gone. My grief is almost old
Enough to drive a car. You loved a fast
Car with the white top down, chrome and cobalt,
Candy shine like a raspberry sucker.
You were my Atlas, the sky as blue as your eyes,
The river as broad as your smile, the seas
As vast as your knowing. What you didn’t know rushed
Over the edge of a plate-flat planet.
“It’s Hell getting old,” you announced, your days catching
For the ball team at Ellis Park over,
Your knees shot from squatting behind home-plate,
Your rusty throw to second base too slow.
“It’s Hell getting old,” you repeated when Mom left,
Your marriage marred by blind neglect, your
Eyesight age-blighted, astigmatism to blame
For everything you never saw. You see
The end coming via the IV tube. The nurse
Brings the morphine. It eases your death pangs.
For an afternoon, you are back in Chicago,
Slack-shouldered, one foot already in Hell.
God didn’t pluck you away; your demons chased you
Until the hounds made a meal of the fox.
Your blue eyes faded, and the sky could no longer
Be blue. The river dried up and the seas
Drained down to the underworld to show the volume
Of your knowledge. The news reached Satan’s ears
And he threw you up to Heaven, into the lap
Of God where I expect to see you next.
An earlier version of this poem appeared in Twenty-two Twenty-eight, October 2024.
Jennifer Frost Writes 