Friday, June 5, 2015


My father, since he died, feels free
To walk into any poem of mine
And look around. He knows that when
My mother turns up, missing him,
He'll turn and smile to see her.
For now, though, he taps three fingers
Against a conceit, listening to hear
If it is as solid as its maker warranted.
He talks with the punctuation marks
To see if they're content or if some comma,
Doing the work of a semi-colon,
Feels it deserves more pay. On occasion,
He will very gently take a word aside
To suggest it might be happier elsewhere.

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