False Elegy

Our neighbor Ted, a blind man, died last month.

We didn’t know his name until a friend
asked if we’d heard about the accident:
a rainy day, roadwork, a car’s bald tires.

My wife asked me why I was so upset—

I never even knew the guy’s first name.

“That’s why,” I said, “We should’ve known his name.”

“We just moved in,” she said, “It’s been nine months.”

“Ten,” I said, “Why aren’t you more upset?”
I heard her Skyping later with friend—

she griped about the roadwork (her new tires),

predicting it would cause an accident.

I glared at her: “Another accident.”
When she logged off, she shouted my full name
like my mother would. “Sorry,” she said, “I’m tired.”

I offered to buy a card—or was a month
too long to wait? She nodded, “For a friend
or relative. But buy one. You’re upset.”

I asked my therapist if he could set
me straight: “Zoloft?” He said the accident

brought back my cousin’s death, how I unfriended

his wife who’d photoshopped his rank and name

above a dead bald eagle. “That was months
ago,” I said. I tried to squeeze out a tear.

I bought a card (fall leaves, rain) but retired

it to the nightstand—What if it upset
Ted’s wife? My wife told me to wait a month

and I’d forget about the accident.

The more I tried the more I heard Ted’s name

in conversation. I annoyed my friends.

I couldn’t sleep. Why bother to befriend
new people anymore? My thoughts felt tired.

My voice, my attitude, even my name.
My wife was tired, too: “You’re still upset?”

“Yes, I’m upset, there’s been an accident.”
“Enough,” she said, “You’ve been this way for months.”

The months dragged on, the year. I felt less tired,

upset about my non-friend’s accident.
I mailed the card but didn’t sign my name.