At the funeral, her grandfather
explained why.
The car’s burnout was apt;
she needed purity,
so God came.
The casket was closed,
we each kept our own
favorite ideas.
March, two days later, I huddled over
a grease-sheer paper bag of warmth,
McFries on the El platform floor,
southbound at night.
Her train was headed the other
way, but she smiled,
in pity maybe.
It seemed kind, yet
the door closed,
and I had the particular guilt
of a person using junk
to feel better about
some indignity.
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