Thursday, December 22, 2011

Papa 's Box

Papa’s Box

Mandated for centuries a plain pine box
raw wood unadorned slipping easily
into the earth from whence he came
But Papa loved mahogany spent lemon scented
Sundays oiling the whirls in the towering breakfront
the cornered Victrola on its own fringed carpet,
the twin side-tables at which he knelt to polish each
claw footed toe in turn with his white cheesecloth
and soft sable mustache brushes
In the soft late afternoon Sunday ligh
glowing golden he’d smile at the gentle shimmered
sheen of his burnished mahogany
and so – when it was time – there in place
of the mandated raw pine was Papa slipped
into the earth in solid mahogany shining
as his smile lowered into the soft earth of
that final Sunday a scent of lemon oil drifted
a filament of pure white cheesecloth lifted into the air


  1. just lost my dad. my poem I share with you is about that. I love this... thank you!

  2. Thank you... Your poem is exquisite...your dad, Steve was a lucky man .... Love truly never dies and you can make stone faces smile.