The bones of my father are not Dried whistle clean or bleached white, or Buried in the local cemetery, As they should be. Oh, no, no… no. They are still in his body and He and his corpse are still walking, Stumbling around in my neighborhood. In my house. But the corpse of my father, The man my mother knew, loved and married; The man who died (who should have lived) Is in. in my house, my life. The zombie father. The body of my father is not decaying, no. No, sir, his name is not among the fallen, Or emblazoned on a monument. He is not quite dead, He is not dead enough to please. No, no monument for the lost, The nearly dead, the animated, the suspended beings. No, there was no moment of silence For my father. Only a story, only a medal, Only me. A moment of listening, please.