Winter drizzle, a hill cemetery
naked but for the stumps of stone
arranged in neat precise lines
or laid haphazardly,
depending upon the desire of the deceased
and will of the living.
Jackstraw pines separate the hill from the road.
Most are dead or dying from exhaust fumes
and oil slicked runoff.
On a path at the bottom of the hill
a small white-headed man pushes
a smaller white-headed woman in a wheelchair.
He stops at a bench, turns her toward the stones,
lights a cigarette for her, hands her a flask, settles
onto the bench.
Sitting still, waiting patiently, they are dressed for
the weather,
as if they intend to wait for a change.
The old places are all deserted. The old times areall
abandoned.
What remains are a few faces, the flavor of tobacco
and whiskey,
food is a necessary evil like using the toilet and
clipping toenails.
The business that remains is more than just letting
go,
it is tearing loose from what is left of the grand
possibility --
what was made and what became of it.