The Question of Remembering

His obit followed an e-mail: he had gone by choice.

Would I see to a newspaper clipping on the 

pool room bulletin board? Yes.

 

As I tacked the paper up, they laid their cues 

against the wall, gathered, read, talked 

in unusually soft voices-- they are middle-aged 

and mill-worker half deaf and often

bellow like buffalo to one another--

aware afresh of their own future obituaries

tacked to the board, aware of the voices of those left

reading the newsprint over ensuing days, 

remembering, perhaps shivering some inside, 

wondering how people will talk about them, after.

 

I have seen to the newspaper clipping on the 

pool room bulletin board, knowing that at some point

it will be my photo and my life story, and that,

every time beyond the first few days of reading and

pondering, only those who grieve will remember.