Like most children of his generation,
He’s trying to figure out his father
Long after his death,
Driving past his grave
On a freezer burned automatic morning
When the slate gray sky is the kind of poem
That annihilates an already tired audience,
Tanked on caffeine,
Suffering the ambiguity of the age,
And he knows in his casual contemplation
That he is a lesser being,
Faithless as the metal filings
Scattered by the magnet, memory.
I stand in awe. As always, Tim makes a poem seem so simple, when it isn’t.
I agree, Helen, this is an extraordinary poem.