Gravedigger’s Stomp
by Michael Farkas
The absence of things sting my skin.
Leaves hush away in sacs.
I’ve always wondered about these particular human idiocies.
Tidiness in the face of leaves;
Shining fleets of SUVs.
Children tethered to apron strings dance & sing:
We want Mommy! We want Mommy!
I’ve always wondered about my particular wife.
Fear in the face of passports,
How she prized those built-in wooden window shutters of hers.
Joggers are too thin, I feel.
We are healthy! We are healthy!
I’ve never loved to jog so much as when I come to stop.
On foggy mornings finding God,
Smiling, in his hands -a mop.
Soon my children will shatter this:
We are hungry! We are hungry!
I never have run with the bulls.
But I can imagine the smell,
Scaling Jerusalem’s walls for a Mecc’falafel.
Other people other dreams.
Disappear as sounds subside.
Faded muddy muted bass,
Quivers no more thump.
Sleepy Rastas lay their locks upon tree pillow stumps.
Family, Friends all dancing around.
We are worried! We are worried!
Point me toward revision. Decision. Reflection.
They’d sooner have me bagging leaves!
For lack of safe direction.
I am the leaves. I am the mess.
It is I who must die every year,
More or less.
So go bag the leaves and shine SUVs.
I’ve poems to compost and women to squeeze.
Your seasonal business of tidy is pomp.
An orchestral, vegetable, gravedigger’s stomp.
The dollars will trickle, the statements shall bleed.
So dig me up dead from the leaves for to seed.
There’s children to raise and women to test.
God grant me a looker who’s proud of her chest!
I don’t give a damn,
And for all your concern.
Your lawn is so tidy, there’s nothing to learn.