Winter drizzle, a hill cemetery, open,
naked but for the stumps of stone
arranged in neat precise lines,
or laid haphazardly depending
upon the desire of the deceased,
and will of the living.
Jackstraw pines separate the hill from the road,
mostly dead or dying from exhaust fumes
and oil slicked runoff.
On a path at the bottom of the hill
a small white-headed man pushes
a smaller white-headed woman in a wheelchair.
He stops at a bench, turns her toward the stones,
lights a cigarette for her, hands her a flask, settles onto the bench.
Sitting still, waiting patiently, they are dressed for the weather,
as if they intend to wait for a change.
The old places are all deserted, the old times are all abandoned.
What remains are a few faces, the flavor of tobacco and whiskey,
food is a necessary evil like using the toilet and clipping toenails.
The business that remains is more than just letting go,
it is tearing loose from what is left of the grand possibility –
what was made and what became of it.
 Open link night at the Pub