Gary Wiener

The last time we visited
we saw that –somehow– his gravestone
had shifted from facing south to nearly southeast.

As if, sitting on my desk at night, gazing northwest,
I had somehow willed him once again
turn to me as the seven-year old he was

before we placed him, his teddy bear
and his blanket, in a five-foot coffin
and lowered him into eternity.

Perhaps the soil has settled,
the groundskeeper might suggest
or maybe they just stood the stone back wrong

after the night the vandals came
and punished him for dying.
But sitting on my desk at night

Under the large, few stars,
I face the northwest and strain
every muscle in my face,
focusing on that stone willing him to turn toward me
just a little bit more.

In Posse: Potentially, might be ...