Looking out over the green acres
The water spouts washing the nameplates
And feeding the verdant pasture
The tree line the road giving little shade to the grave stones
This cemetery the last resting place of so many
Bred to feed the machine, the bureaucratic factory
Keeping the wheels of a dying industrial age alive
There will be one person buried in the hole, dug during a rainstorm
Reserved for a chef of words
A poet.
Lost in a corner beneath a dying rose bush
The name almost eroded away on the green colored brass plate
But his words, thoughts and ideas live on
In the self published anthology
Now sold in a used bookstore
To be bought, read and misunderstood
By a woman who devours poetry like an elephant consumes fruit
Tossed on a pile of other books like a dirty pair of her ex-husband underpants
The words saved by her fluffy white poodle pitbull mix
Who after being shouted at grabs the book in his mouth and runs into the street
Poetry always needs a good home and Andre a student of literature picks it up
From where it was deposited next to the dog’s favorite lamppost
Opened regularly and read aloud, the poet’s works is heard by all who are present
A new generation listen to the words of a long ago dead unknown poet.
