GRIEF Poem: Betsy, by Zach Subar

Back when we were friends
I went to your house every day.
The carpet was soft.
Your mother brought out firm juicy grapes
and peanut butter sandwiches
with the crusts cut off.
Nine years old
hitting signed baseballs over wooden fences
losing them in the greenery
nothing more important than the bearded men running around the television.
The president, uncontroversially there
quiet so peaceful and deep.

Now your mother is dead.
The carpet has been torn up by another family.
The others watched
as you ate roast pig at your wedding.
I haven’t seen your face in years.
All those playdates
What for?
You tell me you think of me and my family often
but I don’t believe you.

I can’t let you go
even though I’m trying.
When I look outside
a baseball sticks out
from the bushes.

I try to reach into the snow to pick it up.
I’m not surprised
when it disintegrates
beneath my fingers.

Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film. View all posts by poetryfest