Every year
that long
weekend just before Summer
burned off in
the back seat,
hot-chafing-crowded, waiting for
Mother to gather those weeds-
*spharangia*-as if
Bird's Eye and
refrigeration never happened,
so tasty, washed & boiled &
soaked in olive oil...
Burnt, incensed offering at an
unmarked grave in
Somersworth, NH, hissing w/ inactivity-
-Never served in the military (no flag)
-Never needed to be bailed out (no teen years)
-Never hit by a pitch (sick, poor)
-Never known in the Patrida ('Amerikanaki')
-Never got a headstone (family moved on...)
The first nice weekend of the
year (i
whined) spent chasing down almost family &
Daddy's vestigial Memory.
'We shared a bed. That morning he was cold. Yaya said, 'Get up! Go! '''
His heart was too big for life support.
NBA playoffs &
RedSox &
April love songs on
the radio; black flies & sweat all over; and Theo Christo,
cold
alone
six feet
under
nothing
Remembered, if only today.
*For my uncle and namesake, Christo George Mendros [1923-1931]*
Cretan Maineiac
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/six-feet-under-nothing/
