Dan, I saw you today

at your mothers funeral.

Your hair got longer

and it served to shadow your growing-up face.

Remember when

you grew a shaggy mohawk

and announced to the world

your refusal to conform?

Dan, I didn't see you

crying. You were a silent

black covered figurine

dusting dirt over a grave.

If only the darkened glances

were of remembered artifice

of young boys

and even younger girls.

Those were her breaking days,

when Prozac was a vitamin,

and your punk rock edge

pushed your mother away.

Dan, your sister doesn't

dye her hair anymore.

Remember when

changing was easy?