In a rush this weekday morning, I tap the horn as I speed past the cemetery where my parents are buried side by side beneath a slab of smooth granite. Then, all day, I think of him rising up to give me that look of knowing disapproval while my mother calmly tells him to lie back down. Copyright © 2000 by The Modern Poetry Association. This poem appears in the December 2000 issue of @3Poetry@1 Magazine. http://www.poetrymagazine.ord |