Wednesday, January 14, 2015


Being dead and at loose ends, my mother
Comes by pretty often, urging me
To write about my father. I argue with her --
She would think me altered if I did not --
"Have I not written enough about him
And about you too?" She glances at my muse
Who is sitting idle at her desk. The two of them
Get along disturbingly well. (When I lived at home
My friends who came by when I was out
Lingered, chatting with my mother for hours. )
"He has nothing scheduled today
Nor until next Monday when his totem animal
Has a working lunch with him. Shall I pencil you in
For a  ragged unrhymed sonnet?"

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