I stared at him as he pulled death from his left breast pocket,
Newports. He lit a scyth between his teeth with a match.
The smoke leaving, you’d think the devil made a campfire in him.
I stared at him when his lungs were gashed.
He coughed. Hard. So hard, I knew blood went up with it;
he pounded his chest,almost crushing his green box of blades,
surprised that nothing sliced open.
The smoke the same color as the hearse he swung the keys for. I stared at him,
the spectacle, watching grim leave this man’s mouth and sit passenger.
He was careful not to step on the flowers that lined
the building, same flowers I would take from; martyred flowers
I would let decorate my hair, journals and the insides of my hand.
Staring at him made me wonder if he was trying to join in the gossip
of those he chauffeur, if all the flowers I killed would come to haunt me;
ghosts would rise from the bookmarks I’ve made,
flowers I’ve foolishly forgotten about, never gave a eulogy for,
made accidental graves for. Is a place full of dead things a dead thing too?
I am never not amazed by a cemetery’s ability to grow grass.
