Nine times nine is just the time
that my father would have
if he were alive.
He’d have passed through his decade
numbered through nine
were he still around,
if he but thrived.

It’s over two years
since my dad passed
since his ashes were trashed
or blown onto grass.
On his blessed memory
I’ve often dined
since my father died
at seventy nine.

If he were around
still on this day
it’s clear this piece here
I wouldn’t yet say.
His demise in the future
I would divine
or dread, or interpret
while searching for signs.

But as it stands
my father lays dead
– yet still clearly haunting
embedded in head.
Years after his death
he’ll abide until mine,
when I lay bones to rest
on my nine timesed by nine.

About Jonathan Berger

I used to write quite a bit more.
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