There’s no need for grief.
They aren’t twiddling their thumbs in some remote afterlife
trapped in endless games of shuffleboard with Gabriel.
They aren’t even rotting under the soft mulch
of the Woodlawn Park Memorial Cemetery.
No, they’re in business, the lot of them.
My Dad, in fact, set up a new shop
on the corner of Hamblyn and East 42nd -
four years and six months after his death.
When you open the doors on a bright autumn day
the bell chimes to signal your entry -
and then he appears, just behind the cash register.
He doffs his cap and smiles:
“How can I help?”
They aren’t twiddling their thumbs in some remote afterlife
trapped in endless games of shuffleboard with Gabriel.
They aren’t even rotting under the soft mulch
of the Woodlawn Park Memorial Cemetery.
No, they’re in business, the lot of them.
My Dad, in fact, set up a new shop
on the corner of Hamblyn and East 42nd -
four years and six months after his death.
When you open the doors on a bright autumn day
the bell chimes to signal your entry -
and then he appears, just behind the cash register.
He doffs his cap and smiles:
“How can I help?”