my favorite fruit is melancholy
I dress in black except when I'm dressed in black
I have a miniature cemetery in my yard with tombstones
there must be dead things in there
ants beetles crickets a-z
dead leaves appropriately lie in it
a lookalike freshly covered over grave
fresh grave chic I like to think of it
cenotaph like concrete block in the east 40
read the obituaries anyone I know?
my name will be there someday, will anyone care?
all my family is dead or in prison
the lucky ones are dead so it sayeth in Ecclesiastes 4: 2
visiting graveyards is my pastime
it’s quiet, calming, puts things in perspective as they like to say
why does it grip me like a hand reaching out from a crypt?
maybe it’s because both my grandparents
had houses next to cemeteries
spent hours walking around them while the adults played pinochle
on maple dining room tables with a ubiquitous leaf
drinking highballs from fancy glass tumblers
french doors led to the front parlor where the grandfather clock lived
the television was in there
always seemed that british show the avengers was on
—-I can’t explain this fascination
personally I’m opting for cremation
spread my ashes in the bay
float away float away
