by Ron Koertge

Poets can’t wait to bury their fathers
so they can write about it.

Mine wanted no part of that.
“I’ll bury myself, thank you.”

I thought he meant later,
but that afternoon he left
a note: I’m dead.

I dialed his cell. The reception
was bad at that speed but he
heard me ask,

“What am I supposed to tell Mom?”

“You’re the writer,” he replied.
“Make something up.”
“Elegy” by Ron Koertge from Vampire Planet. © Red Hen Press, 2016. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

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