Poetry Post #20: West

This is how
it happened:

During your yesterday —
my today —
closing in on fifty-two,
playing “West” on a loop.

How slow time had moved for us —
for me and Tuesday Anne —
so, there I was,
casting sheep’s eyes at the Broken Man.

His blue-green
had fire-tipped my ears.
He was neither the first — nor last, I’m sure —
a pattern reappeared:

of something indiscreet,
so animal,
and by all counts,

The summer before your death,
I’d heard it’s first tick:
a subconscious inkling of that October 9th,
there, there it was — the snip of your wick.

But how can I be sorry
when I left the urn and you didn’t?