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8/30/2017 10:35:37 PM Stark Hunter Posts: 2	Grace Thompson 1894-1917 At the timbered railroad depot, On lower Philadelphia Street, Across from the lumber yard and the state school there, I spent many an erstwhile afternoon, Sitting and worrying and waiting, Like an expectant Ceres, For the returning equinox, Like an agonizing Penelope, For her long lost love, From the ancient shores of Ilium, Waiting and hoping in the spring rain. And I thought a thousand thoughts, About life and love and finally dying. And I also thought much about my wonderful father, My gentle fitful father, A wayward, kind soul he was, Who, out of the blue, Left the town and our family behind, Left to find greener pastures as he said, And who promised to return, When his oats had at last been wildly sown. And I waited and waited, Praying and hoping, That the next train would at last bring, His lovely humble smile, His relaxed eyes, and handsome hermetic brow. But my endless patient waiting, Came to a halt that day in cloudy April, My last day alive, When again, the tremulous train arrived, There at the timbered railroad depot, Across from the state school there, And once again, he was not on board. And so, here I am now, Still waiting patiently, expectantly, In my dusty forgotten grave, Waiting for just a single simple flower, From the only man I absolutely adored, To be placed upon my single simple tombstone.
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9/5/2017 1:47:07 PM Jack Webster Posts: 255	This isn't an epitaph An epitaph would be like: They buried her by the train, still waiting for her father.
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