The Head Stone

Saturdays were reserved for the cemetery,

for silent conversations,

for wading in the grass looking for last words,

You asked me too early to write your epitaphs,

and too late to right your wrongs,

setting it in stone did not set you up for failure,

or anything of the opposite,

In fact,

staring at these,

only made me believe them to be placeholders,

that was all they were,

all they will be,

I think maybe,

maybe we inherit melancholy,

maybe pieces of it are circumstantial,

but mostly,

our misery was meant to be,

meant for others in this row,

and then on down to me