I pretend to like nonfiction
I read it just to prove there is a single
realistic bone in my body, There isn’t.
I am made of styrofoam wishes and
truths I refuse to accept-
like Brannon, age 21, shaken awake
by a seizure that no longer allowed him
to wake again. Just like that he died
Dec 8th, sunny day, I had cornflakes for breakfast
while Brannon’s mourning mother digested the news.
It happened. Senseless. Completely unspectacular.
The cars outside even continued their commute
no one stopped for the grieving parade, it never showed
Dec 9th will come, maybe it will be a sunny day
maybe I will have cornflakes for breakfast
Likely though, I will pick up another fictional story
One with the gallant ending, the fastened bow,
the poetic words. Maybe that will let me sleep
at night pretending those stories are nonfiction-
Pretending that people die when time is used and
tucked away, old aged and wrinkled, rocking next
to pictures of their Brady Bunch grandchildren
who tell tales of their first kiss with the neighbor’s son-
the one with the funny looking braces
that’s how it’s supposed to be,
hasn’t anyone read the books?