John F. McCullagh (09/28/1954 / Flushing)
She’d liked their life the way it was;
their Pied de Terre above Broadway.
Now her lawyers indicate
It must be sold, there’s tax to pay...
His daughter seldom ever calls.
since her father’s burial day..
She would be someone to share the loss.,
But motherless she prefers to stay.
Jane sits before her mirror and
brushes back a wayward strand.
He used to love to brush her hair.
back when she still had her man.
She’d thought herself the luckiest girl-
She was his angel, heaven sent.
Photographs and memories
Now are all that she has left.
Gone two months, not even two,
Shrapnel killed her Marathon man.
He never reached the finish line
And now she’s living
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Après Vous by John F. McCullagh )
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