Succession

Father, you were the most high 
magistrate of superstition, dying
intestate because you feared 
making a will would hasten the end.  

Before the end, your palms came 
together every morning; your mouth 
tumbled each round bead of prayer
until they lay smooth in a heap again.

My hand hovers, uncertain, above  
the key to complete any transaction. 
It's you I miss, not what wasn't there; 
not the wealth you wanted to bequeath.


Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.