Maryland

 A SONNET

Here, my father (not) died on a Sunday,  

On a day I can remember, longing;  

We lived lives of fire and plenty, sadly—  

Loving—it was a sincere gift, wronging; 

But what did I learn? How not to veer there 

Off course? But, I did, and I was hungry 

Landed several feet down—away, aware,  

From all I knew. At home with a sundry,  

  

I was afraid, afraid to get filthy,  

So, I did, and here’s where we are. I am.  

All I think about are birds burst out, guilty, 

Feathers flying—liquid black. Ruined pram;  

  

Then, I’m still charging like a ram, or steer,  

So, I don’t choke on my life at sixty. 

✴✴✴