This poem is dedicated to my only son, Gregory Douglas Turner, Aug. 8, 1969-Dec. 3, 1992. The picture (from the local newspaper) is the actual site (behind the house of the boy who murdered Doug) of where my son was found Feb. 4, 1993.
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Grave

Son, who saw your footsteps in the snow
splattered red? Nobody claims to know.
I miss you so.
Shot, axed, murdered---a strange neighborhood—
a ten-inch grave underneath firewood …
hide his crime, could.
He had to know you couldn’t remain
in the shallow bed thru snow and rain
it would be insane.
Engaged, fiancee’ enraged, she lied.
She wasn’t pregnant—no life inside—
December bride?
Dear child … nobody can take your place.
You’re much more than a body, a face—
made my heart race.
Unconditional traditional—
a parents’ love isn’t fictional
or material.
Set up by your fiancee’ (Day one)
there is nothing I could have done.
She thought it was fun—
two beau’s---not just one.

This world seems different, grave, without you.
Tears still cascade. There’s no getting o’er you
loved you … still do.