Every year we have a cake
with another candle on it
as though he had climbed
out of the wreck alive and
sat at the table with us now,
laughing and telling his jokes.
Every year we celebrate his
birthday as though he'd never
slid a hundred yards down
Foster Street, rolled over ten
times, knocked down a lot of signs
and killed the little girl.
Every year we pretend
that another year has passed
with only the usual troubles.
We say toasts, but they are really
prayers, for the living and the
dead. Every year we try to forget
what our son took and what
he left behind.