HOW ARE THINGS.

How are things

on your side
of the fence or curtain,
my son?
I think of you
quite often
as well you know
I guess.
Do you visit me
as I sleep or sit
at my PC
tapping in my words
and you stand there
as you used to do
gazing over
my shoulder
with your silent presence?
When I visit your grave
to bring flowers
or stand and talk
are you there
as I stand and stare?
I think your are
and when I walk away
back along the path
between graves
having sighed
and secretly cried
I imagine you
walking there
by my side.