Timing, a poem


when the snow comes

and I get in the car

and drive slowly into

town past the cemetery

where he is

up on the hill

I slow down even more

I say

Love you, Pops

and think of him

swearing at a hammer or

a screwdriver

finally starting his poor excuse

for a handy man impression

on some small job around the place

beginning his enterprise around

a quarter after eleven at night

soon to be punctuated by an acid

blast from my mother

we have them separated at the moment

still not having figured out what to do

with her ashes

maybe we will wait until a quarter after eleven

some night and drop by his grave with her

I guess there is really no reason to rush


Author: William J. Gibson

62 year old - writer/photographer Canadian, survived open heart surgery, received kidney transplant, sometimes dour, sometimes amusing, over six feet in height, severely follicle challemged

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