Memorial Day 2012

The narrow black roads

form a grid in a way that’s

not really for cars which

pass so slowly their tires

barely hiss or for people

either who have to walk

over family plots amid

the funeral regalia to get

anywhere. This garden for

the dead is nice enough,

but no one really understands

what’s going on here. Ask

and women will just pretend

they didn’t hear and men

will turn into talking heads

looking over your shoulder

to out there in spin-doctorland.

There’s no poetry here that

I can see only perpetual care,

and without poetry I can

never hope to understand.

No one knows what’s going

on here least of all me.

All I know is this is where

you are.

FG  4/23/2011

All rights reserved by the author Forrest Greenwood


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