A short sharp breath; a place at table bare,
No glass of wine; mere heels of spore-flecked bread.
A man once filled that seat; no longer there.
The patriarchal dad — lo, now is dead.
Where once he offered blessings with great glee,
and carved the haunch of roast beef with aplomb,
we try to sense his presence, oft times he’s seen.
Doth hear his high-pitched laugh? Alas, struck dumb.
I fain to place a call; balked, yanked up short.
Pleased to draw up close, avail, I cannot.
The yard ‘tween land and stars, too strong a thwart.
A’wailing in the dark, ’tis but for naught.
Where yowls from earth to heaven never cease,
The answers coming hence brim full of peace.
{David L. Stanley:DStan58} May, 2019
