Untitled #68

it always seems quiet
on the cemetery drive
i’m not even sure
when the radio goes off
or when the talking stops
from those of us still alive

of course, it seems the solemn
and respectful thing to do
a thousand stones in rows
monuments thrusting skyward
i go to visit just two

sadly, he before she
my mothers’ only father
simple and white haired
even with coke bottle glasses
no one even bothered

her, the grass not yet grown
quite sad in its own way
surviving almost twenty years
resentful and alone
until that saturday

strong emotions creep
for one thing or another
as for me, i felt the saddest
watching a grown up child
crying for her mother