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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
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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