the things we put into our heads

I don't know you

you don't know me but I never have to

wonder what the snow looks like

in a sunken New England sun

because I already know -

the things we put into our heads stay

there forever - it's pink when it's fresh

as if it wasn't ready to be fallen

you died in Chicago on a Saturday night

while I lay sleeping

and we all came to see you off-

you should have seen your father

well done, son, he kept saying

job well done

we were all there to see you off

but I wonder and to wonder is to lose -

if we cut into you

would you be pink the white snow