On the Death of my Mother
I woke up thinking about Sparks and how she still has
someone to remember her long calico fur.
How death had poor directions and left that scruffy dog
living on the other side of the street sleep
until noon while she found a corner of the house
on which to lay her cares for good. I thought about the guilt
I felt for not being the perfect son with the large
bank account, the mansion, and the sports cars.
I shed a few tears when I recalled how you’d caress my face.
It reminded me of Paris and how much I thought about you
while shopping for gifts at the wineries. It was me
death should have looked for— childless, flashy,
with the sexual appetite, the urban legend,
the one who should be spooking children
when they go to sleep for weeks after Halloween.