(crunch)

For days the crunch
of dead grass
as I prowl the
cemeteries where
my ancestors lay,
the greats, great greats
the one hung by
Civil War hooligans
because he wouldn’t
give up his cash,
cut down in time
by his sister.
A Volunteer who walked
to New Orleans to fight
the War of 1812.
His new headstone
with its flag does
not touch me.
Later I think the
man a fool
& an embarrassament,
willing to die for cash.
The split earth
has not seen rain
in months
the longest drought
they say
in a hundred years
Bugs I do not know
stick to my paper
as I rub charcoal
across the grave
stones.
they covered Earl,
at 96
walking the graveyard
with his two canes
singing his way
into and out of
the woods.
they do not know
about the far away
look in an old man’s
eye, but sense somehow
that their time draws
near.

9/22/99