Life After Death
My father never gets
the hang of being dead.
He lived so long, so willingly,
he never accepts his life
is finished, done, kaput.
He appears at family gatherings,
presence comforting as wood smoke,
laughter swirling through the stories.
On trips out of town,
he grumps in the back seat,
now that he can’t call shotgun.
This afternoon, there he was
at the table by the window,
easing his back into the sun,
looking for a cup of coffee
and a cinnamon roll.
Winner, First Place, Eye On Life Poetry Contest 2011-2012