He pushes his tired body
behind the wheel of his '89 Chevy truck,
drives to his second full-time
job of the day.
Last week
his 83-year-old mother died.
Guilt digs in its claws
like a vulture riding his shoulder.
He okays the $600 in flowers that smell
decayed before the funeral begins.
Lets his dad choose the mahogany
casket with pink silk lining, solid brass handles.
He loads corpse and coffin
into his pickup, crawls behind the wheel again.
Leading a caravan to the coast,
he crams the family into motel rooms,
pays the undertaker, tips hirelings,
passes out tissues, swallows his tears.
He wonders if he can push his body
through one more job.
Driving home through rain-shrouded mountains
he watches birds lift from drooping boughs.
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