Four-Thirty
On my way home the day he died
I stopped at the store.
Or the gas station, or the bank,
I don’t remember now.
The street corner, I remember,
but I forget the business.
I closed my car door, and
glanced at my watch –
4:30 p.m.
I wouldn’t make it home in time.
Mom met me on the road,
at the bend by the blackberry bushes.
Her face was flat and wet,
and I knew.
4:30