Driving Home from Your Wake

Donald Zirilli

and pondering the tragedy of all that extra driving,
I see a fawn lying on the side of the road
in perfect sleep, and I remember the grandchildren
not knowing what to feel, looking around.

It’s quite a while before I think of you,
almost Elizabethan in that high collar,
forever unflappable, full of the last word,
not that I got too close,

and when finally I’m in the backyard with a beer,
the fireflies are like a procession of headlights
performing maneuvers I can’t know,
not stars at all.