You’re driving too fast for a cemetery, I say on this frigid day.
I’m mad at first then amused, confused, curious.

This white Jeep Patriot blasts R&B
And right at me.

Not really a road, certainly not a street,
the living and dead are bisected by what you might call blacktop.

Down the middle, the Jeep goes past as I walk to stay warm.

From atop the hill, I follow the music.
Bum bum ba bum bum ba bum
The Patriot swings left. Then turns again before stopping.

I feel my tooth — if that makes any sense.
It attracts my tongue.
I bite down.
The point presses in.
The pain reminds me that I’m alive.

Approaching the Jeep,
I see lights on and the driver side door open.

The music is louder.
And I notice the man who drove right at me.
He’s grieving—back and forth to the beat.
Bum bum ba bum bum ba bum

The man’s dancing with someone — a lover, his brother
Who died too soon?

Still walking, I find my tooth with my tongue and rub.
Death is not fair for those left to live.