Muth Labben
Today is for counting my wasted yesterdays
Each one neatly lined up
row on dusty row
Every year the same
Today is for remembering your unborn tomorrows
And the time I sit
because walking is too slow
There is no blame
Today is for pretending to make sense of the past
From a life ended
with nothing to show
When I speak your name
Today is for thinking that memories last
But all they do is fade
until they go
Like every unfinished song to be sung
About the death of a son
Copyright © 2012 Bill Friday
