You think back to one July when Papaw was still living:
He gave you and your brother some leftover watermelon
Lazy and full of fruit, you skimped across crabgrass
fantasizing about fireworks and lying to each other
about what you’d kill with a pellet gun if you had a clean shot.
These days, doesn’t everything seem different?
Little by little, the pink sweetness of beauty continues to thin.
The Gospel singers sing and no one listens.
You carried your Papaw like chewed up rinds
to a hole in the ground while it rained.
Maybe God’s up in the sky with a big old shiny rifle,
picking off everything you love right and left.