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.