Grief Voice by Vern Fein

Nothing matched the pain
in my neighbor’s eyes
when he told me
his grandson died suddenly:
“Of an undiagnosed cause,” he said.

In my old age,
my mind nearly complete,
scribbled on and smudged,
erased and written over,
sculpted, drawn, kneaded, smeared
like a child's finger painting
makes no sense.

A child's sudden unfathomable death sparked
such dark thoughts:
It could be my grandchild.
What would I do with that time?
Never a playground again
or promised Disney trip.
No Little League dreams.
Can I ever watch baseball again?
Memories of our “couch Olympics”
when I made up silly stunts
to his wild laughter
haunt me.

I can’t remove my mind,
place it on a shelf,
put it back in place
when I think I need it.

The mind thinks what it wants,
what I don't want
with no more order
than the child smearing paint
or banging away on a piano.

My mind reeled,
trying to drown the neighbor's
grief voice when he cried out:
"No rhyme or reason.”

A retired special education teacher, Vern Fein has published over one hundred poems on over fifty sites, a few being: *82 Review, The Literary Nest, Gyroscope Review, The Pangolin Review, Courtship of Winds, 500 Miles, The Write Launch, Broadkill Review, Soft Cartel, and River and South.