Every lost and wandered thing
What he knows of impermanence,
the perseverance of chased quail,
four ways to summon regret, the
misapplication of punctuality, how
to craft tombs for waiting boys.
It will be a busy morning, this.
Easy to imagine him as he once
stood outside my door, Bermuda
shorts and cowboy boots, holding
a sack of meatball sandwiches, the
surprise at my surprise at his surprise visit.
And now, nine years later, he
waits still for me to visit, just
once, with some cut flowers
swaddled in tissue bunting to
lay on the grass above the plate
that bears his name into oblivion.
I will go, I tell myself, again and
again, the camera pulling back to
reveal the shouldered son shuddering
alone on the ground, dead leaves
tracing every lost and wandered thing,
the pull of branches inevitable as winter.
November 24, 2014