NIGHTTIME PATHS
Overturned tombstones.
Lamentations
again over
people
nowadays. Notice
how often
it’s some rowdy
white boys
who dare commit
such an
affront to the dead?
But I
sometimes wonder if
it’s
dispersed drunken adults
leaning on
the sturdy granite,
lost there
in the old cemetery
in a
stupor headed home. Yes,
purporting
to be admirable souls
for not
getting behind the wheel,
but
nighttime paths can mislead,
and people
misjudge their griefs
so
cumbersomely they stumble
roughly
into markers that then
tumble.
Cursing. Then silence
after a
door creaks—you call it
a lid on
the casket, but it’s a door.
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