Grieve for the old man who sells hot chestnuts on the corner.
Grieve for the waves in the ocean when they slap the shore and die.
Grieve for the bright red lipstick on the whore’s face.
Grieve for the entropy of the universe.
Grieve for Costello after Abbott died.
Grieve for half-full liquor bottles in the alley.
Grieve for Mickey Mantle.
Grieve for the concept of grieving.
Grieve for the gay man who fantasizes about Chris Isaak.
Grieve for all the lies told in Grand Central Station.
Grieve for the brains of Ernest Hemingway splattered against the wall.
Grieve for humor lost on the humorless.
Grieve for the unread book.
Grieve for the old lady who remembers when she was young and beautiful.
Grieve for birds who go to undiscovered caves to die.
Grieve for the Iraq veteran America turned her back on.
Grieve for the the man dying of aids alone in a Chicago rooming house.
Grieve for the hard on never satisfied.
Grieve for the beautiful flower that goes unseen.
Grieve for the last soldier killed in the Viet Nam war.
Grieve for the unreflected life.
Grieve for wives who fear silence at dinner.
Grieve for the Sudanese mother
who watches helplessly as her baby dies.
Grieve for the frightened soldier.
Grieve for the innocent executed on Death Row.
but don’t grieve for me.
I grieve for myself.