A DYING STAR.

A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.

They must know why,
you said
in your quiet voice,

doubts beginning to knock;
knocked sideways.
Two days later,

my son,
you were dead.
That corridor,

the time ticking by,
you-
yes, you,

shadowy,
come to me still,
dreams, maybe.

Your touch
on your mother's shoulder
the other night?

I played the Led Zeppelin
once again,
recalling you saying:

always the rocker.
Dark waves,
light at the end

of no tunnel so far.
No other light
except a dying star.