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.

— Peggy Trojan 

Winner, First Place, Eye On Life Poetry Contest 2011-2012