I always knew this day would come;
that the pack of carrion, ever advancing, would stop,
double–back and tear into your back.
they swallowed mine, like sand against a mountain.
I thought, that if I had more time, I could wear you down
and yet — time is an ever furtive lover.
My garment—torn, hangs upon me as gossamer wind, its warmth as winter.
– wide paned windows, laughter in the deep, Ford Theater’s most famous stainer, McBean and Glen — are all among my friends
— these are the memories of my childhood, the gifts you gave me; my treasure from your large open hands.
thank you for these jewels — treasure, that time nor thief can touch.
— a poem written upon my father’s death
© 2017 rl busséll
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