Buried in his shirt

His old straw hat

hangs there

on a nail

inside the cooling shed.

Overalls

inside the house

in the closet

by the bed.

Work boots

on the back porch

caked in red

clay.

They buried him

in a suit

I had never seen

In a dull blue tie

that could never

compete with

twinkling eyes

And a service

that ran too solemn

for a nature

such as his.

He would have

preferred

one last meal

with the family,

one last laugh.

I drove home

alone and

discovered there

behind a door

His work shirt

cleaned with care

that brought

to memory again

The life

he had planted

here, the garden

he had tended

And I

in this place

buried in his shirt,

my face.

2.6.12