Burnt Popcorn

Eyes glaze like cinnamon swirls
watching rotation after rotation
in the microwave
as if they were watching
television programs without endings.

A sting in my eyes
when I look into that bag
of charcoal, black buttered dust
attaching to my retinas, my eyelids
sharp and brittle. 

I am disappointed.
My brother is hungry.

Asphalt

My sole is just waiting
for the wrong moment

to pull apart from the shoe
expose socks the color of newsprint

force my toes to cook
like sausages on the summer asphalt. 

Standing in the Room with My Brother

Standing in the room with my brother,
a distant cousin
two friends of my father's

and an old neighbor
- every shade of black and grey -
we wait for the funeral director to come
and give us our instructions
on how to carry my uncle

through the parking lot
and into the hearse.

I don't see them do it,

but someone attaches
those tattered black flags

to everyone's cars,
and the family files out,

 in order of relative importance.

And in the cemetery,
where it is appropriately cold and
damp and bleak,
we huddle amongst ourselves -
our clothes as black as night
and our tears like a dew
that cannot wait for morning.