I like to
write poems in
the passenger seat
of my car, parked in the
shade in a cemetery not far,
nary a sound, stories all around,
like the stranger named
Doogan who drowned
when he rushed into
a freezing lake to
save a young
lad going
down,
and slipped
under himself, and
together they swam to the sky.
Heroes fly free and get an encore.
Once, I heard a story of some long
departed souls buried on a hill in a Nebraska
reservation graveyard who complained
to living loved ones that sprinklers
and lawn mowers made it hard
to sleep, so please let the
grass be.
But
who doesn’t
love the smell of
a newly mown lawn?
Life grows on.
By Tom Vandel
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