Nobody buries me but me,

shovel in hand.

But it's hot outside.

Good God! I say,

taking off my shirt.

Time, I think,

for a beer, a smoke,

to read some Bukowski.

I'll get back to this death

business later.

Been playing with this piece for awhile, decided to cut the line lengths to see if it opened up. Let me know what you think.


The Young Widower



looks out
at his garden
and becomes old,
there in the
sun.
The buttons
of his sweater
loosen
and fray,
hanging loose on
his bones.
Just above the baked
brown soil the
tomatoes
splitting,
festering,
over-ripe;
and the corn,
dead in its stalks,
unharvested.