EVEN FROM THEIR GRAVES.

A MAN AND HIS PARENTS AND MEMORIES.

Even from their graves
The parents expect much,
Bill muses, standing a few

Feet from bums in the park,
Snoozing drunk on benches,
Cluttering up the place, at

Least to some eyes other than
His. He’d been there once.
Pulled himself up and out

By the proverbial laces.
He looks around the park.
Location of lovers in late

Summer (the bushes are
Good places he imagines),
Walkers of dogs, pushers

Of perambulators, sitters
Of would be philosophers
On park benches, once the

Bums have moved on, the
Grass layers with their kids
Or lovers doing their kissing

Or sleeping or maybe dreaming
Of a better life (he wonders
What Liebniz would say about

That) and the couples old and
Young hand in hand or not so
Taking their pace along paths

Or across grass avoiding dog
Shite and remembering the
Sundays of his youth walking

Behind the parents, watching
Them ahead of him, his father
Rambling on about the business

And his mother nodding trying
To keep up, adding the odd
Word or two, her shoes going

Clickety click on the path,
And Bill (William to them)
Walking behind, watching

The thin line on his mother’s
Stockings, the way she walked,
The sway of her hips, and his

Father steady in pace as if
Marching off to some deadly
War. Both gone now, settled

In their graves; neatly stoned,
Flowered well. Bill does his
Best; visits when he can; says

A few words they’ll not hear.
No difference there then, they
Never did much listening to him:

It was always, later William,
Later or not just now William,
Your father’s talking. Well he’s

Silent now.  Bill can have his
Say; no more arguments, no
Need to row; he likes it that way.