Ben

by Pam Burr Smith

I got the oversized blue denim oven mitts for you
and your new house.  They were so masculine and handsome,
like you.

I imagined you in your new kitchen,
making roasts and potatoes and who knows what else
a deep-voiced man with a big stove might cook.

You died so quickly, the house didn’t even
change hands.  And I didn’t give you the oven mitts,
because suddenly, you couldn’t hold anything.

Nor could we hold on to you, spare you from
the racing train of death that zeroed in on you
in the middle of full summer.

Fifteen years you’ve been gone,
and I still see you out of the corner of my eye.
You, jaywalking across a street, or striding down a lawn,

pausing to graze in a bookstore window.
Always curious and fresh.
Never in a rush.