Above a Whisper
The grass around
my father’s grave.
To walk on blades
I can’t help but feel.
Does he see me struggle
over sunken markers
careful not to wake the dead?
I’d like to share the latest.
Everything I’m after.
News about a dream job
my own place to live
the love of a woman who finds
me worthy of affection.
There’s little to report.
I speak of world affairs.
Warmer winters.
Now he knows the score
of last year’s Super Bowl.
I get the sense
of talking to myself
above a whisper.
Over headstones
fixed in solemn rows
birds assuming
V-formation.
c b snoad
9-19-13
