Waiting at IHOP

She lost that light,
the only thing that shone
in Philipsburg, Montana. She’s been away
for fifteen years, still remembers them
begging her to stay, but she left
to make herself into something
great. Now, she isn’t
the star of any place, still waiting
tables until lunch is over.

Or maybe,
she never starved for anything
larger than a lifetime of wondering
about TV shows and of hoping
for a gentle moment–she waits
because she’s never thought
of anything more.

The Son Writes

Death is blackened
by white roses orchestrating
the stage for grief.

My father wrote
those three lines,
before he died.
Now I hear them,
those lines, once more
as his fellows gather and muse
and drink about.

He was a good mentor,
a sensational man of letters–
his passing is felt.

But I’m the only one who manages to see
what my father wrote–lines
ready to be drowned by history’s waves.
I see through the mush,
and the things my father did
to achieve a pedestal amongst guardians
of the ivy halls. But, he remains
for now, while I am alive and trying to confine
my own place for when they look at me
they only see the son, the shadow
of his greatness.


Note: I posted a version of this a few days ago but deleted it in favor of this rewrite.