You didn’t change out of your slippers.
You unfolded a lawn chair at the foot of the grave, the sun slowly laying itself down on the treetops. I liked the way you held yourself, so I watched you as you snapped open a beer and talked. Maybe about the family coming for thanksgiving, or how cold it’s been in town. But I saw the way your shoulders sagged into the arm rests, I saw that feeling.
Like the one person that ever helped you through days like this, is gone. As if you wished you were laying right next to ‘em. The way you used to, when you two looked at stars or were just too drunk to hold your head up on top of the rest of your body.
The lawn chair made me think,
you’ve been doing this a lot longer than I have. I admire you, and those slippers were fucking marvelous.
