Your words look like tiny branches,
stripped and strewn about
by straight line winds,
taken from a cigar box of ideas:
a plastic Kmart shoehorn, stub pencils,
one cuff link, your college ID,
a few pink crushed Dixie cups,
You look out the window, a mourning dove
cuts across a pale sky, the mate
nowhere in sight.
It's time to begin that obituary; you are determined
to make anyone understand.