Periodical.

by Poet on the Piano   Apr 27, 2020


This morning, I listened to smooth jazz
in your honor, urging the saxophone
to be inspired by memories,
but now, I can't even remember your name.
The newspapers pile up, ink stains on cracked fingers.
My skin has withered away, I am full of decay;
though spring promises rebirth,
I see nothing growing in my palms.

-
Part of my job at work is to browse the local obituaries to keep updated on our patrons. I feel I have to fully read their life's legacy to honor them in some way.

4


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Latest Comments

  • 1 year ago

    by Dagmar Wilson

    Amazing and glad to see nominated. Add to my favorite. All the very best

  • 1 year ago

    by Rania Moallem

    Oh this is nailed! This is a masterpiece MA, i love every single line from the very 1st morning word to that closing line! Nominated!

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