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.