A Friend Asks About the Last Thing that Made me Cry

I say I don’t remember,

embarrassed by the truth:

yesterday morning,

in the back of my work truck.

Boss asked what took me so long

to deliver Thursday’s mail—

I explained the wealthy neighborhood,

endless driveways & hidden boxes.

There were so many gates.

One door opened.

I saw a man I know from childhood.

His greeting took hours to reach me.

My father has never read a poem.

Gave up on me long ago.

I don’t understand what you do, he says.

Happy now there might be a pension.

I tell my mother I dread

the coming winter: black ice,

fumbling in the dark

with frozen hands.

Be grateful you are alive, she says.

Power through.

Which is exactly what I do.

Thank you thank you until

the sun rises up my core--

hits the locked door

of my throat. Suffocates.

Life looks away, disgusted

by how I have misunderstood.