To My Poor Father

Eleven years have gone.
It rained a little
after your burial,
and we all drank tea.

Your fingers in the pyre
were just as they were
the night you died.

Nothing happened.
It was just December,
the first week.

Sometimes, I board
a crowded bus
to get off somewhere
in the crowded street
dreaming of walking
with someone to the sea
but always returning
all alone to this room.