POEM - Weed Whacking The Headstones

Death comes dressed to the nines, in a fine tuxedo,
Made from fine purple cloth
With all the pomp and circumstance of a June graduation
Or the new-penny-shininess of a wedding.
It is really a mass spoken in tiny Latin whispers;
Its back completely erect,
Its movement a measured out ingredient
In some recipe that is grief.
Here, in this hangnail of a cemetery,
I watch a groundskeeper
Weed-whacking the headstones
Because things need to be kept up:
Appearances and faith.
Just one more thing on a list
Among a myriad of other things to do.

M C Biegner
7/8/06