For Lucy. In Memory of Larry McCann

It isn't fair to say that time has stopped.
It never does, she knows. The sun will
Crawl across the sky, yet, here, inside
Her father's house, it seems as if the
Universe has paused. His mail is on
The coffee table in the living room.
A half a beer is in the kitchen. Dishes
Soak. A cherry pie, three-quarters
Of it, sits inside its tin in the refrigerator,
Underneath a chunk of cheese, and he
Is dead. She's seen him so, composed,
Almost as if he was a deli counter's
Piece of meat, so cold and perfect,
Nearly real, but dead. She thinks
That she should speak to him, but he,
The man who was, is gone, and, she,
Alone among the frozen things which
Say that time has paused, must thrust
Them back into the flow to follow he,
Who isn't, and will not return.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 28 times
Written on 2011-08-26 at 00:30

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