"Repast,"
I said to my grandmother
91 and almost deaf
"They call these funeral dinners repasts."
"The past?" she kept saying.
"Repast!"
Yelled
My depressed aunt
grey hair short,
parted like
Audrey Hepburn
"He said repast!"
The table
got quiet.
By Bill Nicholas
1 comment:
Bill Nicholas has been writing since 1987 and has read in New York City at The Back Fence and St. Marks Poetry Project. He was pubished in an internet poetry magazine in 2003.
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