Cold Graveyard: Zionsville Indiana
I write my father’s history on the back of my eyes,
scribbling anxiously as if short on time.
He pulls himself from the grave, not content
to leave me here without some final notice.
His mouth moves, full of dirt, no words.
His white eyes look for me among the corn rows.
In a way, I want him to find me, but I am misfit,
soul weary like a train sound tired of travel.
I slip on the ice, ambushed by freezing rain.
Yesterday is a lake, I tell myself. Do not drown.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.