After the Funeral X

The green trees, red brick, and warm sun
The labyrinthine neighborhoods
with their beacons of beerlight
Hidden hearts and bare arms
Wide-hipped women in worn-in t-shirts
The empty city streets at 3am
the porches packed at midday
The secret gardens of the city,
packed ball parks, bike racks, walked dogs,
firm handshakes with your elbow braced,
barflies, Vietnamese Laundromats,
painted signs for forgotten stores
as much a part of the walls
as the wind and the dirt

They are missing their children
every one of them feels so distant
now that your father’s gone

I hope it rains all summer
until the underground stations
fill with standing water
till the gutters are all clogged
and the cars hydroplane down the streets
until any music at all feels too loud
when competing with the pounding of the pavement

I hope men run downtown with their collars up
and their briefcases swinging
and the ones who’ve still got a little something
at the end of the day
push the wet hair from their faces
and smile million dollar smiles
as they walk into the bar

You’re right too
it would be a helluva lot easier
to believe your Dad is sitting around somewhere
than it is to believe
the Cards are playing another season
like nothing ever happened
but towns with seasons
don’t stop for bad weather
the people just note record highs and record lows
as they head out the door