The day your father dies,
It rains. You are mildly surprised
At how easily the world absorbs the blow,
How little there is to be done.
You bury him on a crisp afternoon
In the colored graveyard—because,
It turns out, that was his desire.
Thus, attendance is small.
For the kind, fat minister's Words,
You give him twenty dollars and a tight smile.
Sun has shocked the country
Into its final beauty of the year:
What leaves still hang hang in goldness
Against a liquid blue, and the fascue,
Swept with wind, shines its green—
The last green thing there is,
Save for some dark, sparse pines
In silhouette on the far ridge.
You linger a moment among flowers,
Then follow your shapely shadow back to the house.
You notice how good you look in black.
The following works were selected from The Last Nostalgia...
The Ohio | Death in Orange County | Photograph: Being Sad | Your Shadow | To a Woman Passing By | Adult Situations | Tropical Courtyard | Page
For more info on Joe Bolton, visit: The Joe Bolton I knew | Remembering Joe Bolton