Thursday, October 9, 2014

Harold III

Two loons passed, calling in the waves.
It was time for me to get out and past
Time for me to get in.

I heard another explanation
In June for the missing name.
Perhaps the plaque in memory
Of Harold from his loving parents
Had not been torn away from the bench
The year before by petty vandalism
But by someone vagrant, desperate
For small change, who ripped away
The cashable piece of copper.

The bench, however, remains. Seven
Summers gone and counting, but who am I
To concern myself with Harold
Or loons on the lake, or anyone,
Or motivations, or whether to get out
Or stay in? Remembering
Is everything. Is everything.

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