This is the place.
(Cue the funeral music.)
This where we all end up.
My father-in-law, mother-in-law
are interred there.
Only their disapproval lives on.
There’s former mayors.
Many a councilman.
Even a state governor.
And my ancestors of course.
It’s instructive to know
the worms are eating their way
toward me.
It’s Monday afternoon
and only the few, non-working, devoted
ramble among the stones.
One or two bear flowers,
to place beneath the inscriptions,
as if more living things
need dying.
A couple go from grave to grave
scratching their heads.
They’ve forgotten
where they left their dead.
I, on the other hand,
walk these trails for the exercise.
I intend to live a long time.
Of course, this is also
a graveyard of intentions.
PITY TIlE POOR IMMIGRANT
You can’t get that taste
of death out of your mouth.
The butcher’s shop
is a morgue to you.
Even that smart boutique
on the corner
sells nothing
but what rotting corpses
are wearing this year.
You saw the killing.
Soldiers sweated.
Farmers bled.
They tell you its safe here.
That’s right.
Dead bodies tell you
it’s safe here.
deuce coupe 