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The Man With His Back To The Room
In Pursuit (of grief) "My father had little use for poems, less use [1] My father died alone, shot so full of morphine he couldn't care his wife had left his options to the docs & I, home on holiday, went to work dismantling a life file case by dresser drawer until all that remained was the gavel from his lodge & his ashes which I declined to scatter... & when the crematorium called & inquired, 'What's to be done with the box?' I asked it be dropped at sea, you know, tossed from a plane or however it's done & when they seemed perturbed I'd not take charge I lied a bit & said, "It's what he'd expect." [2] Today, when I pass a neatly ordered field of corn or beans or tomatoes, there's usually a man behind a plow or hoe or walking down the rows & stooping to pick something, put it to his mouth & taste its flesh to know how it's going & how it's going to be in the end when he'll finish what he started. |
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