​

A fog-drenched, leaf-strewn

November day

Rachel and Louis Creed are laid

to rest. The circumstances were strange;

the police didn’t bother

to investigate.

 

A jogger stands a ways back,

out of sight from the crowd. His head still flaps

in the wind, his skull shines through.

“I feel I was used,” he says,

his voice hollow. No one hears.

 

“As was I,” says Judd,

limping on dead ankles,

peering into the caskets.

“I hope they can forgive me.”

 

From the house by the road

where the eighteen wheelers go

Rachel’s desiccated hand emerges to rest

on Judd’s shoulder. Louis stands slack-

jaws behind her. “There’s nothing

to forgive,

my dear --

 

“How about another beer,

For old times’ sake?”

 

Within the woods,

around the burial ground,

a child giggles,

and a cat yowls.

​