Other Poems by:

Rob Plath

Ashes, Junkyards, and Strays

The following day 
after the funeral
your car doesn't start.
 
As if the ceasing 
of bodies
isn't enough.
 
Now you sit, 
stranded in a 
small subterranean 
apartment
 
Without a cigarette.
Without a drink.
 
Alive but filled
with images
of bodies 
slowly being 
reduced
to ash, 
with images of
an obscene
mechanic's bill,
or worse than that,
the junkyard.
 
Then you jump 
because you 
hear this 
horrible, sad
crying.
 
A stray cat is 
at the screen
door facing 
your cat.
 
And their cries 
are the sounds
your thoughts 
would make
if they had 
tiny mouths.

More Than You Know

When
someone's 
grandmother 
dies,
 
it's 
always 
someone's
mother
 
who
dies.

C)opyright 2007 Rob Plath - All Rights Reserved

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