A Dead Man’s Pockets

As sand falls from a sand dollar
on a windowsill miles from the seashore,
so do you at day’s end empty your pockets
of where you’ve been.

The seasons of the year left their trace

on you

til there was nothing

to drop on the dresser but lint in the folds of your hanky.

 

Leaves weighted by rain drop from a gunmetal sky,

swirl and land on the freshly dug grave,

the mound of dirt unsettled and coarse,

 

unlike your face clean-shaven on the blade of the mortician.

Lids drawn over the sterling blue eyes,

tie straightened and mouth closed,

tight-lipped, as our father never was.

 

The mouth isn’t right, my sister whispered

as the kneeler wobbled under our connected sorrow.

I checked his pockets, like a child for a coin,

climbing on a lap, cool, deep, and empty.

For Poets and Storytellers United Friday Writings: In Memoriam 

Publishing Note:

A Dead Man's Pockets appeared in the 2021 Slippery Elm Literary Journal