Eulogy for Forgotten Times

The driven commutes without mentionable

weather or changed radio stations.
 
A day spent entirely alone 

at home, missing no one.

 
A familiar walk by the river

lost in thought.
 
The day you left work 

as though shortly after arriving.

 
Let’s honor those that’ve carried 
us here with no expectations.
 
Between pain’s insistence on permanence
and joy’s inspired impressions, we’ve
forgotten times without difficulty.
 
May times uneventful
return to anonymity.
Our tireless comfort
and overlooked reprieve.

Everyone Needs a Mimi

She hasn’t shrunk. She’s always been.

In high hair and pajamas, she’ll say,

“Want a pickle, ice cream, popcorn?”

She’s not comfortable until you are.

“How’s work? Do you like it?”

If you don’t, you shouldn’t, and she

doesn’t either. If you do, “Oh good.”

Her stool helps her feet touch

the floor. Her gestures rattle her

bracelets over her arm chair.

And if you’re upset, “Talk to Mimi.” 

Another Day

You stand up and shuffle in pajama 
pants (awaking Tater) into the kitchen.
“How did dinner go with Evan?”
“Fine. Talked about the usual stuff.”
Tater arches upward and yawns 
on the back of the couch, and then 

walks down my chest and lap.

Michael Weeks 2

The day after you died 
your house and yard
were full of everyone 
we knew. I fell apart
when exiting the car,
and went around the house
for privacy. I found your 
dad crouched and allowing
a kitten to play with his hand.
He said Hi and I did too.

Then we both continued to cry.

The spirit of the mentally ill

The spirit of the mentally ill
wants one conversation
 
to confirm she exists.
She catches herself
 
on the corners of reality enough
to suspect it:
 
a déjà vu in an overcoat
on a summer beach,
 
the synchrony of a cigarette light
with lamps on streets,
 
or neck hairs on end
when eyes lock with a friend—
 
            the pith of all hope
            (recognizing her expression
 
            in a mirroring face)
            passes understanding.
 
She feels as if something’s misplaced.