Round things roll, houses
tumble like dice,
fathers, and then mothers, die.
.

Checking e-mail over and over for
nothing but complex interface.
I wish there were a ghost or two,
a quick hello from mom & dad.
Old note for then-future essay:
"Emailing the Dead"
.

Twelve nights ago I told you of a poem
a friend had written: The Origin of Teeth and Bones.
As in life, you didn't even shrug,
but coiled in every cell was fiat
that the fifth son love a man.
.

We argued over Mama's viewing: blue head scarf,
or should it be a wig, carefully done up
just as her real hair, by Miss Priscilla.
For you Daddy there were no arguments;
two seatbelts; two airbags, and you never
even knew you were on your way out.