In a random obituary, I hear of your death. No more rain; the balcony is still wet. You have been dead for eight months. A deep river flows between the futons laid out side by side. You were always late. Red and gold fish hide under a rock. Always late, and always your sleeves carefully folded. A cat knows the sunny spot. Flash lilies stick their heads out of the barrier net. I haven’t forgiven you for showing up with a comic book on that day. Bright leaves don’t see me in the interior darkness. A downstairs neighbor talks to me for the first time. I try, but I cannot remember much else about you. The backdoor is ajar; two mosquitoes made it in.
When the work is done
there will be more work. That’s what I show
the kids everyday
“For Protection” he says smearing goop across my forehead. My father is a sculptor, And I am the wax figure he created. With the help of his rough working hands, On my face, he layers-on a sheet of Vaseline. Staring…
the empty road ahead—
no gas stations, no rest stops,
not even a phone booth to call for help.