Obituary
I read the weeks obituaries closely
saw lines of passing on every page
I wondered who they were and
who were those they left behind.
The names meant nothing to me.
I did not know them.
What did it matter to me they liked golf,
had a love for woodcraft, planted gardens?
What was the meaning of lists of those that passed?
I will never know them
or take the time to categorize
those things they liked to do.
Dark mornings before the birds awaken
I rise like those from other graves
and with the other ghosts stir alone
within our movement
toward the coffee and the light;
pen and pad held ready
to meet the challenge of my words;
to play with fire and golden strands
of filaments of thought.
Today I’ll choose the right combination
of characters in search of that single truth,
lost forever inside a forest of final light
and one day for one moment
someone will cast a casual glance
my way and say, “what did it matter
that he liked poetry?”
I never knew him.
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