Visible Remains
I hold each day
the visible remains
of tenuous life
displayed in
commercial space.
Something familiar
in facts of a life
lived and now left
to a few words,
and the memories
of others, forces
me into these faces
—paper-thin lives
now microns, picas
and printer’s ink.
Fifty-nine, thirty-two;
a long illness at
eighty-three. Lives
filled and drained
with working, bowing
leagues, and families:
long lists of uncles and
aunts, cousins and
loving nephews;
parents deceased
or mother left
childless in old age.
Children of young
parents held in a
lifetime of abeyance
and sorrow. Illness
and accident of every
description, of
certainty of limited
time, of the suddenness
of time interrupted.
I read the obituaries
each day scanning
for familiar faces
of people I do not know,
will never know
except for scattered words
of paid for sorrow
with dollars
left behind.
I read the obituaries
looking for some connection
some happiness in lives
counted end to end
for something complete,
useful, joyful, encapsulated
in the safety of
family and friends.
I see sad faces
of life-worn faces;
tired faced — photos
of world war youth;
the young face of a
Saturday night
gone wrong.
Hats cocked, baseball
caps back on the head;
white hair in fine
couture; back & white
photos chosen to
represent a life done.
I search the obituaries
scanning each pair
of eyes staring out
at me from this
permanent post. Searching
each steady face
for that stirring hope
that one more person
will revitalize
with understanding
in the printed shape
a life that
no longer is.
I read the obituaries
each day scanning
names and photographs
looking for my name;
making real the
playground terror
of dreaming one’s
own death.
Rose Lake
March 29, 2005
East Lansing Series
©2005 Visible Remains — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
the visible remains
of tenuous life
displayed in
commercial space.
Something familiar
in facts of a life
lived and now left
to a few words,
and the memories
of others, forces
me into these faces
—paper-thin lives
now microns, picas
and printer’s ink.
Fifty-nine, thirty-two;
a long illness at
eighty-three. Lives
filled and drained
with working, bowing
leagues, and families:
long lists of uncles and
aunts, cousins and
loving nephews;
parents deceased
or mother left
childless in old age.
Children of young
parents held in a
lifetime of abeyance
and sorrow. Illness
and accident of every
description, of
certainty of limited
time, of the suddenness
of time interrupted.
I read the obituaries
each day scanning
for familiar faces
of people I do not know,
will never know
except for scattered words
of paid for sorrow
with dollars
left behind.
I read the obituaries
looking for some connection
some happiness in lives
counted end to end
for something complete,
useful, joyful, encapsulated
in the safety of
family and friends.
I see sad faces
of life-worn faces;
tired faced — photos
of world war youth;
the young face of a
Saturday night
gone wrong.
Hats cocked, baseball
caps back on the head;
white hair in fine
couture; back & white
photos chosen to
represent a life done.
I search the obituaries
scanning each pair
of eyes staring out
at me from this
permanent post. Searching
each steady face
for that stirring hope
that one more person
will revitalize
with understanding
in the printed shape
a life that
no longer is.
I read the obituaries
each day scanning
names and photographs
looking for my name;
making real the
playground terror
of dreaming one’s
own death.
Rose Lake
March 29, 2005
East Lansing Series
©2005 Visible Remains — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.