As I Become Less Likable

As I become less likable

I can clearly visualize my seldom-visited grave;

a bone-packed hole, an oblong tilted stone in a windless field,

pennies in a beaten, scratch-fogged jelly jar,

flowers and notes and such trinkets arrive

to mildly sing the love I mildly gave.

That is, every 4 months or so

where several puzzled hearts annealed,

a carnation is tossed from a slowing car.