was buried last year in a pile
of rotting leaves . He froze-up,
his starter motor conked-out
on an unlit road. He tried to walk
the rest of the way; he lay down
for one of those moments
that seems to last forever.
No one taught me to miss him,
&
I don't. I won 't miss anything
that 's wrapped-up in a skimpy coat
of leaves . I didn 't even know
the tree. I'm not heartless;
I hate the wolf spiders here,
&
I like to be held,
&
fussed over.
Fathers are a dime a dozen; mothers
come at a drop of a hat. I run
to the door,
&
sometimes I answer
when I am called for some unexplained reason.
