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About This Poem
Our Father's
White cloaked among the shine of brass and glass, Father waits,
cries of past and present mingle, among the cairns of dead.
He paces penitently within the maze
of the stucco glazed cemetery.
"Shall I pray for your dead? He seems to say..
Have you paid the fee?"
The dead rule here and he is their voice.
“How many Our Father’s shall I say?”
Money, as always the key….
“My child why do you cry?”
Father inquires with Priestly aplomb.
“Only God now knows where your mother has gone.”
Half dead flowers fall from the child’s hand.
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