In the middle of the century we buried you —
after King and before Tate; after My Lai
and before Kent State. Too soon,
the astronauts walked on the moon.
It all was dust: you were not there.
Sometimes, the year grown long,
I pass the house. The Bois d'Arc's there,
its thorns. The dogwood, gone.
I can't say what I'm looking for —
your brogan boots,
your fishing rod against the car,
your briefcase at the door?
Mother could not bear your books.
She gave them to me, your desk,
every picture. She does not speak of you.
I long to hear: you are so much
like your father. I wait in vain.
I, alone, am left to say your name.