Over the River

Kelly Wantuch

There was something about the way
His body looked ooo swallowed up by
The reclining ghost-white bed,
Dry Bartlett- faced with lemon-aid
Eyes expressing the words he was
Holding hostage. Eating sweet cubed
Watermelon moistening his
Parched lips into a smile as
He watched over Little Bobby
Playing with the scrap wood train he
Made for him; up and over the
Blanket mountains.

Closed flower shops . . .

Leaves a bare oaked
Casket weeping
At Christmas time.