On the day she died,

I helped Dad dress himself

in his favorite gray tie –

(everything is gray)


his trembling hands like

the stirred gulf waters

and gulls that won’t settle.


I breathed the salty air

down the street, the one

with lining cottonwoods,

toward the tiny empty room,

where she’s dressed in 

her best, old music streaming

through the crackly speakers.


I know that tune playing

I tell dad,

he nodds and winks,

she loved it, she loved it.


At the Service,

It’s a steep road

greeting no visitors

watching the deadlocked moon

smiling at the gulf

but I didn’t dare look

at the reflection.


Dave Barber

Natural Laws

21 Nov 08