The wipers scuff. Mom cries
as Dad looks ahead for a place to park,
the funeral home on the right,
the coffin of that boy who hanged himself
closed or so someone said.
A rain-soaked kid on a bicycle flashes
like a bolt of fugitive lightning.
On the porch of the corner house,
a loud man yaps to the neighbor
lady who peels an apple,
the knife raised to her teeth,
a slice disappearing as she listens
to KDKA, tomorrow’s weather
the same as today’s, showers,
the gravesite muddy.
As the car jerks forward,
I listen to distant thunder rumble
and think of the shoes
I will have to polish tomorrow.