A Burial
The weight of the pall lifts.
The burial now.
Soil flecked with bits, root-gnarls, apathy
“Sure it’s for the best” that the coffin dips beneath the lip of the dig.
“Sure it’s for the best”; honeybrittled words finding rummaging mouths.
A stagger of thin roses follow the coffin down.
The soil-digger’s rough and dirty jeans step out over the grave.
The priest drips rosary beads carefully between fingers.
The void is capped and flowers are placed.
The crowds disperse –
The fair-weathered followed by the whiskey-drinkers and the sandwich-eaters.
The bereaved hug
And stumble on the inelegant gravel pathway
Leaving only shovels and shadows in obedient vigil.
________________________________
Cornfields
Growing
On dry, scorched soil.
Arid desert fields,
Stunted stems,
A faded golden promise
Of a sweeter tomorrow.
Brittle stalks -
Broken; leaning over fences
Into barren drainage ditches,
Cut once to irrigate,
But now channelling dull, dry, dusty air
From a drier Michigan
To an emptier lake.
Ears that can no longer hear
Frump and flow
Gusting in a stale and deafening breeze.
An old dog barks as the Sun sucks the marrow from the bone.
An oasis –
A patch of deep green – ears intact – stalks proud as lions.
Excitedly I pull the car up the tired gravel
And swing to a halt.
Within seconds, I am shucking, eating … and regretting.
An old man approaches me with a smile on his face.
“Best ethanol crop we’ve had in years.”
And that’s when I remember
That the horizon in Michigan
Is shaped
Like
An old blue
1968
Chevrolet.