'Twas
a blustery day
pooh-who, boo-hoo,
deep inside your head,
as you tumbled back,
ass over brain's
scorched teakettle,
the whistling
so loud
you thought
only
to shut it out,
make it stop,
the pain
of feeling,
like this,
or so unlike
yourself,
and a bald eagle
flew overhead,
delivering the news
I might again
be losing,
given another
poor excuse
for grieving
which I chose to ignore,
because as we often joke,
there is no back door
out of this place,
and so a latter night,
when I fed the dead,
I refused
you a place
among them,
because you remain,
with or without good reason,
and I thank you, my friend,
for only teasing at leaving.