Your gravestone juts out of the ground
like a hand hailing a cab
or waving from a distance
to a friend from far away.
It’s been years since I’ve been here –
not many family visits
or flowers laid down on anniversaries. 

I recall the tearful day:
a funeral, a burial,
a gathering in the hall,
stories told and silent moments shared.
That stone retains two dates,
a commemoration, a name,
but visiting here feels more
like walking throught a dream,
disembodied, timeless.
You are not here.
You do not reside beneath
this too-bright grass,
you will not show up,
surprising us like ghosts do
in those late-night made-for-cable movies.
Where you are has nothing to do
with this place, this time.
So if I drive by without a glance,
you’ll know why and you’ll know how
I remember.

Published in: on September 13, 2010 at 2:50 pm  Comments (2)  
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2 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. Generally, I don’t like poetry (and never was able to write a poem). But I really liked yours.In fact, I could see it and feel it… Great poem! Thank you fo sharing.

    • Thanks for the feedback. Glad to hear it worked on a sensory level.

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