The ashes that were his photos <br />Have long since disintegrated. <br />Somehere up north <br />He's encased in frozen soil dusted with snow. <br />A cold wind howls over him now. <br />Over his numbered grave. <br />His name never escapes my lips anymore. <br />We no longer share the same surname. <br /> <br />The days are good now. <br />Games in the sun, <br />Magnolia trees for shade. <br />The children play and laugh <br />Past their bedtime. <br />Every now and then, though <br />When it's past my bedtime, <br />And the trains aren't running, and <br />The mockingbirds have finally settled down, <br />I freeze, then burn and <br />Then ache to take the sharpest, <br />The most precise blade, <br />Of the hardest metal I can find and <br />Scrape, srape, scrape every trace of him <br />From my marrow.<br /><br />Francis Santaquilani<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/scrape-scrape-scrape/
