her eyes
are full of confessions
and they reflect
some untidy life lessons

and i feel my sleep
chasing more sleep
following its tired feet
when will the let up no longer be for let
when will exhaustion
be so exhausted it will just forget

i feel washed out
tumble dry my hope
washing machine,
be my dreams

i am the outside
with inside moss
i am the gradual incline
with its sudden loss

but you had him
and i did not know what to do with them
you were infectious
i was shy and coy
and all i wanted, was to be your boy

was it always too much
or was there a moment
or an incident where it was too much
was it february 1975
or that long hot summer of 1976

i did my best
i have always
felt,
humbly underrated
it has,
always painted my portrait

funeral closes another chapter
and grief finds another stage
another process,
and another place
the exhaustion is not exhausted