At the age of eight I did not know
what a hearse was and what it drove.
I stood in front of a long, white box
but I could not look at you because
the last time I saw you was outside my house,
you asked to borrow a bottle of ketchup.
I called you outside the very next day
and you did not come out.
You were not there.
You swore to me your mailbox
was the only white you’ll ever ride
for it was your steed, your companion,
to all the adventures we went on together.
And yet you laid there
in a white box within a white box.
They told me you were sleeping.
They told me to say goodbye.
You will not be waking up.