A police sergeant
stopped by the house this afternoon
with my son’s wallet
and an accident report
we don’t ever have to read.

He’d been first at the scene that night,
then sat in our living room
while my wife called me
in Los Angeles.

Today, I offer him a cup of coffee
and hope he’ll stay with us for a moment.

I now understand
the meaning of

shattered.

I can’t even tell if it is okay
to smile at my wife–

but I’ll go for a walk,
and while I am out,
get her the box of chai
she was searching for.

—

I don’t know where to begin. I’ve lost my son.

I don’t know where to begin. Perhaps deciding to simply sit here, inside this not-knowing, inside this feeling of being shattered–perhaps this is something Zen gave to me, having turned out to be nothing I was actually looking for.

I don’t know where to begin. Except to return here, reach for my pencil and scratch out a few of the fragments I find.