The Write In

It was always Friday when I made the rounds to the cemetery---

up the path and around the cul-de-sac

looking for rocks

My voice was cracking and I hadn't anything to say

just a kiss for the headstone

and a running list that could have been etched in---

the epitaph

And I wanted to sit Indian style

so I could pop my gum and remember the suburbs

and the privilege and boundary of the mailbox

And I was just wondering

if we could all go back to the old Tuesdays

when we were six feet up

and annoyed at all the things we cared to control