An Obligatory Poem Commemorating The Day I Buried My Father

The way your wife cried

still haunts me

when I look at the dusty corners,

knowing the grey nothings

have only collected in your absence.

 

When I left your bedside-

deathbed- finally,

I walked out the peeling red

front door, I looked at the sky

the same stagnant blue and godless white.

Bright pumpkins gleamed on the stoop

No candle-lit smiles were carved to

shine through that night.

 

This year, I noticed

leaves changing while I drove down four eighty-one

The trees couldn’t help it,

eager to remind me of the pain

accompanying reds, oranges, with rot, death.

A year ago, my lips touched your forehead,

a chill so heartwrenching I felt it again

as you descended six feet before our eyes.

 

Flocked around your wife that day,

mourners cooed and cried.

I sat alone on the stoop feeling left-

over. No longer who I once was.

I still don’t know.

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