The Tiniest Little Things
It's always the tiniest little things that do it.
It wasn't that they had fought all night,
but that she left the cream out of his coffee
that made him kill her.
A deliberate oversight, he said,
and she agreed (from beyond the grave)
and said it wasn't that he hit her,
but that he hadn't said please
when he asked for the coffee.
It isn't the fact that it's raining,
but the single streak across the glass
that the windshield wiper makes
right in your line of vision,
blurring the sight of the little funeral flag.
And the funeral was beautifully said
but for the fact you're not Christian.
Sitting by the grave is fine,
except for the grass stain it leaves
on your pink dress
(discounting the stares of the others in black).
And it isn't the body in the ground
so much as the hole in the middle of you
where that person was.
It's always the tiniest little things
that remind you of the big things that aren't.