Vox Populi
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Barbara Huntington: What to Do with Nine Twelfths
At the time it seemed a good idea
Dividing his ashes
One half — then another divided in sixths
For each child, his brother
And me, always trying to please everyone
But he’s probably not pleased
Lurking in plastic bags, in cardboard boxes,
In the garage
Oh, one part of him is in Yosemite
Another in the surf at La Jolla
A third is in his brother’s garden
But what to do with nine twelfths?
The house?
There are already too many ghosts
Dragging their vaporous selves out from between
computers, cell phones, printers
and vast quantities of unlabeled chargers
Not the vegetable garden for the confirmed hater
of spinach and broccoli!
His kids said Disneyland, but now they rarely visit
Afraid I may say,
“Just a minute, I need to give you something from the
garage.”
They are wise to me
Our family of indecision, denial
So there he sits
What will I do with the nine twelfths in the garage?
Copyright 2015 Barbara Huntington. This poem was first published in San Diego Writers Ink Anthology.
Vox Populi 
Beautiful piece, Barbara!! Such fun.
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Thank you!
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Thank you Michael Simms. I am still floating above the floor
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Love it. I am sharing on my FB page.
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Thank you!
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love this, so clever. So proud of you Barbara!
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Thank you!
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Thank you, Janice.
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Thought I was replying to Janice. Thank you, Deborah!
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Barbara is the best. More!
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Thank you!
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Wonderful. Had to giggle.
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Thank you!
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As always, thoughtful, interesting and provocative. Love it.
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Thank you!
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Wonderful! I have a bit of my mom with me here. Coffee scoop at the viewing, an unaccompanied flight in Tupperware to Pittsburgh. A bit on my grandfather’s irises in my garden, the rest in the lake after a boat ride. I get this!!!
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Thank you!
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Wonderful poem! Thanks for sharing. 🥰
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Thank you!
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BTW rumor has it that the remaining ashes might have found their way to Petco park by the statue of his idol Tony Gwyn and to a stop light he lobbied for for years to keep the kids safe where he was an elementary school principal. He had a wicked sense of humor and would have approved of my poem. Thank you, Michael.
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Tony Gwynn Sheesh
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