From the Big Black Hearse

On the day they
buried Nanny,
the gravediggers lurked
in the cemetery
stubbly-dark faced ghouls
in soiled blue jeans,
smoking, spitting,
against their
yellow backhoe as if waiting
for a late bus.
They didn't have
the respect
for the dead
that gravediggers had
when Grandpa
dug graves, his filterless
Pall Mall dangling from his
gray lips,
way back when
he needed work
and took any job,
even digging graves
by hand
with a dented shovel
and a hard pick
worn smooth as a yacht’s hull.

Michael Estabrook says: "Seems I've been writing poetry for so long that Methuselah should be taking notice, but in reality, time is simply doing its thing streaking ahead blithely pulling all of us along for the wild ride whether we like it or not." He has published 15 chapbooks over the years, the last one just came out about his Dad, “methinks I see my father,” and before that was “when Patti would fall asleep,” about his wife, guess you could say he's a family man. (mestabrook@comcast.net)

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761