November 2

“I guess you can never know,” my grandpa says—here
a tremor breaks his lower lip—”Never really know

how much a man suffers.” I watch him waver,
no more than a second, and I steal it—his lip,

his voice, his tremble. Just as I steal the calendar
in my aunt’s home, the one lying open on the desk

filled with appointments that won’t be kept,
except for one, circled, underlined. And tonight

when it rains quiet rain along the roof, the window,
the street, I’ll take that too. Someone should.

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