Doug Fritock
After spending many years on the East Coast, Doug Fritock now lives with his family in Redondo Beach, California, but still pines away for snow. Previously a tobacco chemist, he has since given up the dark arts and now spends his days driving carpool, tending native plants, swinging kettlebells, and working on poems. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Puerto del Sol, The Black Fork Review, and Sontag Mag.
Backlog
By the time my father’s
marker arrived
almost three months late,
its dates freshly etched,
its granite polished,
its weight encased
in a sarcophagus of foam,
I had already grown
accustomed
to his nameless
final resting place,
that anonymous patch of grass
on the outskirts
of Heritage Lawn,
shoehorned between
the Ross Family
and Will and Willa Willard,
and unencumbered
by any monument
other than a colony of clover
visited by curious bees.
And even though
it was just a bit of turf
on a hillside in Lomita,
perched above a Starbucks
with a peek-a-boo view
of the harbor,
I had to brush away
the tears when they
paved it over with stone.
