It's Coming On Summer
And the gravedigger rides down Van Vorst Street
On his bike slow and certain
As the hour hand of the clock
Through each weary afternoon.
Graceful he knees along,
Light as a cloud of ether,
Back turned to the stone angels
And mausoleums of Forest Hill,
Rolling on fat rubber tires all akimbo
As we sit on our front porches,
watching sun dapples play on his back,
and rocking our babies
in the hum of first heat
Half awake most times
To a bony big-nosed laborer
Passing by,
even if he seems to be
floating in thin air.
But today you see, he looks us in the eye.
Me and then my neighbor,
Nods and tips his hat.
This man who gives back to the earth
What we all owe sooner or later
Looks at us,
And suddenly what seemed
To be broken by leaf shadow
Into golden refractions
Isn't light any more.
It's ectoplasm.
We see it clear as day.
Leftover blossoms of energy,
Rising like morning mist
As he fills in the graves,
Must catch on his clothes as he leaves,
Cling to his bony shoulders,
A cloak of lost vitality
Now found and trailing in his wake.
Dredging the air
With someone else's
sweet attachment to this place.
Leaving us a twilight
cool and water clear
As he sways around a corner
And disappears.
It's a wake up call alright,
And the babies, having heard it,
Go instantly gleeful and past
All possibility of a nap.
It's the gravedigger for God's sake,
And some day he'll drag us too
Behind him whether we like it or not.
How can that guy look so happy?
My neighbor shouts.
I don't know,
I shake my head.
But it's late and I'd better get busy.
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