I imagine him
sitting up tall
beside all of the other
hung-over tongues
that rose too early
on Sunday
a crooked man
in a wrinkled blue suit
   his son
   sent me his wristwatch
   and an old picture
   of a young girl
   sitting on a swing
   in Pekin
   a month after
   he died
   with a few
   polite words
   on a yellow
   post-it note
you know
about how he
carried the photograph
around in his wallet
for thirty years
from the middle pew
I stare down
at the second-hand
swirling beneath
a small circle of
dirty glass
and as the choir
begins to sing
and the congregation
to narcotic parchment
I drop
a single new
dollar bill
beside the watch
and my
four-year old face
in the plate
of pay-as-you-go
and leave
what’s left
of a man
that never was
my father
to be collected
for the saints

© cs moon 2015

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2 Responses to rites

  1. reni says:

    I think this poem has come together at last. What do you think? You are so talented my dear friend. I miss hanging out and making the words become poetry.

  2. Dang. Brava, Christi, stellar.

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