I don't cry at the right things

I don't cry at the right things.

I've managed through a burial—

the box, the programs, the parking lot

after. The memorial.

But tell me a form is wrong,

tell me the package costs more—

and I'm already gone.

She reached below the counter for

a tissue, small flowers, pre-worn.

She didn't look at my face.

Handed it over. Said nothing.

Moved on. I held my place

long enough to say thank you,

take the receipt, leave.

Blew my nose in my car.

Little flowers. My sleeve

still had the tissue in it

when I got home.

She keeps one in a drawer.

She's seen this. The foam

and swell of the wrong-timed kind—

over nothing, over cost.

She didn't ask me anything.

That's the part I haven't lost

track of. The not-asking.