Craig Kirchner is retired, and thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves the aesthetics of the paper and pen, has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a hiatus he was recently published in Decadent Review, Hamilton Stone Review, Wise Owl, Chiron Review, Dark Winter, Spillwords, Fairfield Scribe, Unlikely Stories, The Main Street Rag and several dozen others.
We rushed up from Jacksonville,
cop in Emporia said 95
was not the speed limit,
said I was a threat on the road,
after he had driven across the median
with a spotlight in my eyes.
My Dad had gotten a ticket in Emporia.
4 AM, we got there
he was on a morphine drip.
Mom let me spend some time alone,
I don’t know if he could hear me,
but I told him the story about the ticket,
I thought he smiled,
and then he was gone.
Hurricane Floyd made a funeral
a challenge, carrying the coffin
could have been a disaster.
They offered to postpone, Rofie said no.
I threw my suit away, when it was over,
my thought was he wouldn’t
have had it any other way.
Remembering him years later,
is like wandering empty, endless doors
of no hellos, good-byes.
The holidays seem haunted with hurricane
savagery, reminiscent of his sense of humor.
The doorbell rings, no one’s there,
ever since Dad died.
