RLW, shuffling my feet at his grave

the sun on the rows of marble blocks
the way the W is cut into this one
the birch waving at my back

stumbling over words about myself and this world
for the silent man I'm ending up like

conjuring him in my skull as a leather bound flask behind the seat
as a voice calling back from up front in the car
as a desire to just drive a truck- turning a continent under his rubber
as a bank president in stories
as a smoke stack of Vantage exhale
as a war tale where the Germans suprisingly surrendered the barn
as a black and white photograph of a man
cigarette dangling, beer glass in the left hand
each arm perched on the shoulder of a woman

you see the handprint he left was the stories I forgot
you see success is a funeral
like his where the bum from the bus stop
shows up and listens to the eulogy
and cries with the men in buisness suits