An Elegy
Every year your passing, your death,
sharpens itself in my mirror. You peek.
You pop. You poke your head out of
the grave, out of the depths where you
were dumped decades ago. You crave
attention . . . still. You interrupt conver-
sation to draw attention. At mealtime,
demands are dropped faster than
temperature in a cubicle. Every hour
you’re pushing for resurrection. Every
day, old man, ol’ crusting wine skin, a living
memory, a zombie behaving as my shadow.
–Todd Sukany 26 Apr 2023
Every year your passing, your death,
sharpens itself in my mirror. You peek.
You pop. You poke your head out of
the grave, out of the depths where you
were dumped decades ago. You crave
attention . . . still. You interrupt conver-
sation to draw attention. At mealtime,
demands are dropped faster than
temperature in a cubicle. Every hour
you’re pushing for resurrection. Every
day, old man, ol’ crusting wine skin, a living
memory, a zombie behaving as my shadow.
–Todd Sukany 26 Apr 2023