I try on a suit to look handsome for the moon,
ask the mirror what I’ve gained and what I’ve lost.
I mourn the death of those yet to die,
seek an urn to hold the ashes of what might have been.
I rake leaves as though they fell naturally,
say the quiet part out loud and feel no shame, only sadness.
I sip an evening breeze and admire a robin’s body,
dance to birdsong no one else can hear.
I shake my head to dislodge the ringing in my ear,
dream of Chekhov’s Gun—flinch at the evening news.