Interment (a poem)

Better late than never, I suppose.

The strangeness of the ritual
has only now struck me.

What’s left of my father
is in this container that’s been
on my shelf
for the last two years.

In a few days,
a hole will be dug in the ground;
this container holding what’s left
of my father
will be placed in it
and covered with dirt.

I will leave behind a plaque
to mark the spot, and then
drive back home, alone.

(17 October 2020)

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