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.