Marc Petersen

I am on my way to extinction,
here, today, Christmas morning,
my blanket spread out, my wine
uncorked, lighting my first cigarette
before the stone that says my father,
and the tiny angel smiling
on the granite roof, and those
who have gone past their deaths
in rows up along the banks of lawns
and flowers–all anonymous, even though
I know the names of those closest,
and my sneakers are wet from walking.