Since my father died

by Harry Calhoun

Sometimes I feel so close

to death that I dream I am rubbing

the bones of my father’s spine

 

poking out of his back.

 

But those are isolated instances.

 

Most of the time

I feel as if I’m riding a train

woefully behind schedule,

 

its whistle trailing ghostlike

Into the constant night behind me

clattering slowly but surely

 

over the low and gentle hills

of his living backbone.