Pangaea

This poem was originally published in Cold Mountain Review’s Fall 2009 issue.

Time melts on a rooftop,

breaking into continental sheets of ice,

and that’s how Jim Roberson became a fossil —

Antarctica landed on him,

splintering his spine against the railing,

splitting vertebrae

into the gaps

between fact

and theory,

and his family stood around the body,

mourning Pangaea,

like penguins

frozen in a black and white photograph,

buried inside of a newspaper

that only reports the story

and leaves a man’s thoughts to speculation.

I don’t know how Jim liked his coffee black

or how he hummed “Here Comes the Sun”

as he shoveled snow off his deck.

I can only see his footprints

like holes missing in time.

This poem was originally published in Cold Mountain Review’s Fall 2009 issue.