Grief is a back street,
noisy, confusing, maddening.
Main St. is one block over
Where gay flags flutter, and
storefronts are gilded with
shirts, shoes, shorts and hats,
where people ride past on their
way to places of adventure
No one takes the back street on purpose.
It is full of pot holes filled with tears.
Pain screams by you like you’re standing still
on its way to pierce another soul.
Life is rife with detours to these back streets,
unexpected and shocking are the yellow signs,
the orange barrels, the blinking lights that
turn you from Main St. where you have been
riding along with a tank full of gas.