Bury the Old Dog Deeper than Dirt
As the Coroner crows westward I sit
in the back of the wagon wishing that it was
someone who is not me.
Me, but not me, so that I may see it still
as it appears beyond the shuttering brilliance of the dawn at my back.
I am not afraid
and I am not unwilling, but
who would be? There is no negotiation
and it is cold.
Frost collects on the crest of the wagon and my feet are sore.
Gravedigger, come close.
Give me one last kiss before morning
is all the way here
and forget
everything I said to you last night. I was roaring drunk.
My wife forgives me
or so she forgave me, anyhow,
and now, as the cattle come home
from a long night on the town,
please lay me down gently and pretend I will not cry.