LAST DRIVE

Mike Alexander

Rain fell from the gulf
up east Texas, to drown
the gravesite.  I stood
in the backwash.

The ashes just arrived
a little late.  No hole
readied for my father.
Under water anyway.

No words prepared.
Not yet.  I only read
the stones of his father
& mother.  Some wordsmith.

I backed a few feet
away, to a dry path,
to talk to the minister.
Waters covered the earth.  

…

Drove like mad from
Houston, ahead of
the storm.  Turned
off the highway.

Along the way, farm
roads & supply depots,
reservoirs, sites
unseen by satellite

navigator.  I crossed
over county lines.
I bought gas & tooth-
brush. I drove

two hundred seventy
seven or so miles,
with rain on my tail.
The storm caught up.

…

The house on Jefferson
abandoned, stripped,
side door hanging
open to the elements,

like a drowned
mouth leaking water,
back acre garden
now dead dry,

where once he sat
to watch the lightning
approach, to hear
thunder’s crescendo,

heaven’s music
threatening to wash
away constant sermon.
An angry baptism.

…

At the graveyard
driveway, two vultures
guard an armadillo’s
shriveled shell,

its legs aimed
at a gunmetal sky.
I show up like
a cliché. The son,

dragging his feet
in soggy shoes,
returning to stand
under a dark umbrella.

He left this town a life ago.  
Returned disintegrated.
I too am only half here.  
Ready to leave.

Up to "Last Drive," I was having a bit of writer's block, if such a thing exists. I'd retired, which ignited a world of concerns. I was travelling in California when I got the call that my father had passed. This led to more travelling, & a binge of introspection. All culminating in my father's funeral(s). A major milestone, & yet, when people said they were sorry for my loss, I felt more, not less of him, like he was inhabiting me, an echo of a melody. He & I looked together on his "resting place," & then we moved on.