|
by
Michael Estabrook
He’s been gone now
(from cancer) longer than
he had been alive. I can’t
stop thinking what a peculiar
thought that is, to be dead
longer than you were alive,
all those years stiff and
cold in a damn hole in the
ground. But he’s alive
still in my memory, trying
to start the engine of his
broken-down ’56 Buick,
mowing the lawn wearing
that silly straw hat, drinking
beer from that colorful
old beer stein. I never
had a beer with my Dad,
I was too young when he
died, but I’d give
anything if only I could.
by
Michael Estabrook
“Laura forgot her
shrimp, but it’s OK,
I’ll eat it. My mom
always ate shrimp when she
was on a diet.”
“I didn’t know
that. You never told me
that.”
(When you’ve been
with someone 35 years, learning
anything new, even something
as minute as this, is a
surprise and a treat.)
She sighed, “I remember
when she died her refrigerator
was full of shrimp.”
A
medievalist at heart (and
by training) disgusted with
the modern world, particularly
with the materialism and
mercantilism bludgeoning
life, smashing our brains
into the ground, our hearts
into dust. I’m hoping
to get out of the “business”
world one of these days,
find a true and meaningful
“cause” in life,
other than scratching out
my pale poetic murmurings
like trying to write in
hardened concrete, but I
need to find my “cause”
pretty soon before I turn
to dust myself.
|