dad in a box

my father

has been sitting on the mantle

for over a

year now.

his ashes are

in a nice metal box.

at least i think

it's him.

who's to know these things.

ashes

are ashes.

could be him, or it could

be someone

else,

unknown, or maybe it's

charred chicken,

or pulled pork.

sometimes when i pass

the box

i tap on it

and say, hey dad, what's up?

at some point,

the cemetery

will call us and say come

on over.

we have

room now, and then the show

will begin.

the folded flag, the twenty-one gun

salute

and all the fuss

he didn't want.