Father’s 95th Birthday

My father’s 95^th birthday
Sneaks up upon me,
Especially because he’s gone

Over twenty seven years now.

I actually visit him

In the Museum of Death

With its repetitive reminders

And exhibits,

The display of veils and tears,

Kind words and curses,

The collection of old horizons

In the Hall of Stammering,

The ghost towns

Of Embarrassment and Longing.

There is a diorama

Of a family

That looks idyllic on the outside,

But when the doors to the innards

are unlatched,

And you peer inside

You see vast bruises,

and firemen

Mirrors,

Dark passages

And few opened fields.

Then the announcement is made

Over the loudspeaker

That the museum shall be closing in an hour.

Though it never does,

This same announcement made

Every hour

On the hour

Echoing and ricocheting

in the shiny marble Hall of Endless Time

as you walk toward the exit

that doesn’t exist.

© brtaub 2009