At My Worst

"My,
didn't Betty Jean
do such a
nice job
on the flowers?
Those yellow daisies
Julia sent are
just breathtaking.
And your grandma,
why, honey,
she looks so natural."

And I just stare
at this woman,
and I'm thinking,
Are you on crack?

I can see her too,
slipping furtively
behind the Tas-T-Freeze
to buy that
little yellow rock
that will make
her forget
how simple
her life
really
is.
Make her forget
all those gross
platitudes
she thought
I'd be so
grateful for.

My grandmother's
jaundiced eyes
are weighed down by
blue eyeshadow,
closed forever against
the disease that
murdered her.

Yeah, lady,
she looks real natural,
if natural is
putting dead people
in caked-on makeup
to cover
what sunlight won't
ever touch again
and parading them
up an down
your runway of
nostalgia and regret.

Don't drop your cheery,
summer-day,
buttercup
disposition into my
pocket like
so much loose change.

Don't try to cover the
smell of urine
that still
even now
flies out of the
folds of my clothes
to bring back the images
of yellowed sheets
and steel needles.

Your casual mention
of golden streets and
mansions
are only drops in the
bucket my grandmother
vomited the poison
and lemon Jell-O.
into.

When they bring
the yellow roses
to your room
(because they won't be
able to watch you die),
I hope they choose
a good florist.
When they put those
black-blue bruises
(quickly turning to
that sickly green-yellow)
on your arms
from pulling the pads
from under you,
I hope you will know,
yellow was not ever
a color you looked
good in.