A pick-up truck in line outside my place,
door-dented, ill-maintained, in traffic’s mess,
contains an erstwhile friend. I see his face
through tinted glass but I can’t see what stress
has done to it in these few weeks. My friend
is weird and careless, self-absorbed and dim.
His stubborn negligence brought on the end
of 13 years of life, and peace for him.

I can’t imagine devastation worse
than causing my own child’s cold demise.
My future would be circumscribed; the curse
of wishing ill to all I’d realize.
Resenting any smiles, I would cave
beneath my grief.
We passing nod and wave.