Children hold their breath in the depths of cars
With respect to the dead as their parents press the gas faster,
Peering nervously out of the corners of their eyes.
The graves gaze steadily back, squatted like small children,
Turning slowly to follow each flash of screaming metal zipping by.
These poor souls have been pinched off, removed to
A tiny spit of land in an ocean of zooming cars and bus depots.
The crumbling graves are nodding their headstones, tumbling
Into a turbid torpor as the fog of endless slumber settles softly
Across the dull lawn. Lofty obelisks chase intruders away,
Craggy arms menacingly shaking crumbling fists as they stagger into dust.
Here lies: "Frank HunterDIED
May ? 18 1964
14 Ys 4 Ms & 13 ? Ds"
A blue ribbon flaps forlornly at the base of the limestone slab.
Where is the mourning figure that placed the meager tribute here?
They are gone, as much of a ghost as the ashen phantasms haunting
This place, seen from a dazed and tired eye that jerks awake at the sight.
I think I feel their ghastly hands grasp my chest, snatching
At my fluttering heart. Their tiny fingers snarl between the slats
In my ribs, fumbling for life's glowing hem. They will cling
Like strands of smog as I struggle back through the fence and brush,
Over the rusted railroad tracks, racing towards home.