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I scan the obits
Look for my name
Surely I died
The dirt on my chest
Heavy clay shovel shaped
Grey pink streaked clumps
Miscreant mustard smells and bits of shale
That press
With eyes closed
I keen the dank
Then clutch
The lists of my father
Who before he died
Made sure we all knew
To notify the VA
The SSA
His dentist
And Lung Specialist
But I can think of no one
No dole counsel
No keck or kiss off
Who would repeat my name
A whet echo
For a leper of life

 


P.A. Bees has worked in the construction industry over thirty-five years.  She now consults on environmentally sustainable building projects.  She can make a meal out of an empty refrigerator and wants for nothing more than travel and the occasional hug from a grandchild.  She has been previously published in Halfway Down the Stairs, The Green Silk Journal, Ghostlight Magazine, and the Clockwise Cat.

© 2010, P.A. Bees

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