Father Hunting #8

 

The bus parks on the side of the road

The driver opens his thermos,

pours himself a cup of coffee,

stares into the rear view mirror

 

I am sitting in the last row of seats

holding a useless transfer in my hand

 

I had come this far.

my children and their children it seemed

would miss the bus

 

Already the letters of my name had begun to fade

 

this being the final remains,

the echo of a train leaving,  suited me.

 

my footsteps trailing in gypsum

where nothing grows

 

writing my name

in the last snow of winter

before a spring blossoms

everything but memory

 

I liked it

this writing the final chapter

and ignoring the critics

 

It all went something like this –

 

he made a simple exit

through the rear door

and let the driver finish his coffee in peace

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