Teddy Bears and GI Joe

Quiet child
walking alone past a graveyard
where your father is buried;
Does he stand at the gate
waiting for you,
fingers outstretched,
whispering his tears
to the iron?

Do you reach for him,
standing buried in leaves,
do you tell him of your life
and how the lock on the gate
won’t let you in?

If I were you
I'd pick daisies
in a huge golden field,
kissing each one that reminds me
only of the good times.
And I would sit down next to him
like a best friend that has been missed,
picnicking in the setting sun--
and finally leaning my cheek
against a cold stone
to sleep.

See, I could forget that way;
a mortuary providing me with
pretend memories.
I’d make tea for two:
pouring for the silent teddy bear
that I imagine as him,
sitting carefully next
to the wilting flowers
in my synthetic water vase.

But I suppose boys don’t drink tea;
they play GI Joe
making bombs in the dirt,
burying the dead with the dead,
and leaving the company of friends behind
for when they’re not there.

Graves of millions of fathers
covered with tea cups
and plastic carbon copies,
reflect the porcelain faces of children
through the gloss of gray marble:
faces that are slowly forgetting--
or wishing that they could.