“Last Night”

Someone or something
came into the cemetery,
lobbing off the heads
of all the flowers.
Only stems remained.
Stems, leaves, and ivy
creeping over the head
stones.

Mrs. McGillicutty
will be expanding
her potpouri booth
at the farmer's market,
Saturdays and Sundays.
Everyone just loves
the scent of death,
entering a room
with a full pot, fuming.

narrative poem written on 06-20-2011 by: on mattkane.com
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