dirty hands in pockets I walk through the graveyard on the way home
a cloudy rainy day but the graves and their residents don’t mind
they’re the ones who don’t have any problems
long grass not mowed in a while
weeds choking footstones; names unreadable
dead grass not alive for a while
something in common with those who inhabit these little pieces of the earth
among the tombstones I walk past, someone who lived to be 92
a long life, a full one
next to it marks a grave of somebody who died when they were 22
luck of the draw, luck of the draw…
there’s nothing worse than growing old except not growing old
some tombstones drunk with sorrow falling down
or already laying on the ground passed out
they’ve fallen and can’t get up
forgotten souls
who are you laying there?
almost all of us are forgotten anyway, so what’s the diff?
new day with the hangover of yesterday hanging over it
life; a mostly garish patchwork quilt of randomness
that falls off the bed and lays on the unswept floor
death; a shroud of final finality or so we think so
that brings us to the end of the line
it’s a sad world
