My father’s birthday was April 25th, so this is his week. We are all thinking of him in our own ways.
These are old poems, and I was going to include a whole bunch of apologies and whatnot for not being gardening-related or childrearing-related, but hey, I’m making ZERO money from this blog, and the fame isn’t that much ahead of that zero mark. So read them or not; it’s okay by me.
There's not a month
that passes now
without a few
the year is littered with them
friends who have moved
on, leaving only
their birthdays
fossils in my mind.
They will dig me up
years from now and probe
my brain.
What is all this?
The sacred
birthday burial ground.
The telephone number I need
Springs to mind
Bubbles up
Eager to be of use
398-8520
So familiar; this must be
the right one
I almost dial, but my fingers
Stroke the keypad
Sketch its delicate right angles
Tracing out the pattern
Puzzling
Something isn't right
Is that you again?
The telephone number hangs its head
Ruefully
Ashamed
to belong to my dead grandmother
disconnected three years now
Ashamed
to be useless now
Resorting to trickery
So I will not forget
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