Probate


Probate

I.
Printed forms
with little boxes for each letter
make passive aggressive statements
about trust and penmanship.
I think I’ve been writing on the wrong line
this entire time.

II.
I don't know
where to send the check for her water bill
but I'm unshowered and this is whiskey,
so I stop looking for a pen.
Junk drawers are merely products of their environment.
I sit on the floor and call family I’ve never met,
and they ask me “who did”?

III.
I spent a day
stoned in line at probate court, thinking I was next.
At her home, I throw my keys to the floor in an arc,
before realizing the coffee table is gone too.
I keep the bottle of her pills far from the couch
because the doctor said I should try exercise.

IV.
The real estate agent
calls it the ‘sympathetic grin’,
but doesn't say that to me.
He wipes his feet on the dirt she left.
The house isn’t empty yet, I explain;
just everything in it. He doesn’t hear me.
I offer him some pills, but he's all sympathetic business.

V.
That night,
I dream of my 6th birthday in the park with her.
A donkey pinata explodes, dream children scream,
small estate affidavit forms flutter to the ground
like a palsy victim’s paper airplanes.
A notary in a clown suit wants my drivers license,
but I just want my mom.

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