O, Grief
October 31, 2013

Every day the white-hot
burn of you.

Grief, intransigent
bastard you, ants marching

my counters, every day I kill
you, every day you march again.

I could get used to you,
the extravagant pain of you,

the slack jawed
dead at the end

of a needle, you.
But tonight, I'll walk into you,

past Trick-or-Treaters,
with their open mouthed

bags of want, their hastily sewn
illusions. Past them,

and into you, always
into you.

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Copyright © 2016 Patty Paine All rights reserved
from Grief & Other Animals
Accents Publishing
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission