Driving through New England,
I notice small towns
all have a cemetery
crowded with tombstones,
weathered and leaning
into each other
like old friends.
How many dead people
are buried there?
I hear my father’s voice
ask years ago—
All of them, he’d say,
then laugh at his own joke.
The dead don’t mind,
having sailed away
like widows and warriors
taken by surprise
when the night sky
sinks into a fishbowl,
and the stars blink
out one by one.
MICHAEL MINASSIAN lives with his wife in Southern New England. He is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online poetry journal. His poetry collections Time is Not a River, Morning Calm, and A Matter of Timing as well as a chapbook, Jack Pays a Visit, are all available on Amazon. For more information: https://michaelminassian.com
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ReplyDeleteNow that I have my glasses on, I'll rewrite the comment. I've spent many pleasant hours walking in the graveyards of certain New England towns. Your poem clearly brought those times back. I particularly like your phrase " the night sky sinks into a fish bowl."
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