By Mushroom Montoya
When the autumn geese tumble and twirl
With their gobbling and cackling overhead,
My heart wraps its fingers around my throat,
Rolling a swelling lump that stings my eyes,
Making me yearn for bygone days
Of playing ball
and tag,
and telling silly stories
with my now
dead son.
When autumn geese glide overhead
They gobble down to me,
"We're flying to our nighttime roost,
Before the dark can steal our bed,
Thus we cannot,
dare not,
and wish not to stay.
We only come
To remind you
Your Jeremy
is dead.
I cry,
"You don't need to reminds me."
I wail.
I weep.
From way down deep.
"I know my son is gone."
As they cackle away
I can barely hear them say,
"Only his body,
Only his body,
Only his body.
