Poem - “Yellow Tulips”

When I’m sweaty like cotton candy 

in the seventh inning stretch 

of the final game of the World Series, 

out-of-tune like a piano 

too drunk to debut in Carnegie Hall, 

empty as a soothsayer with no truth, 

frightened as glass afraid to shatter, 

when the dead yellow tulips remind 

me that we will all turn to dust, 

I think of you playing with my hair 

three weeks before you died. 

The soft white clouds, you said, 

will always be there. 

Not much comfort. But enough.