he walks up pointing his cane at our flowers. I know your people, he says. they’re good people. we’re all good people around here. we were good kids back then. I remember. we didn’t do nothing real bad, stole us some watermelons. we had some fistfights, yeah. but, oh — those boys could play ball. your granddaddy was a pitcher. he had an arm, boy. we were just kids, he says, just kids. he wipes his face, puts the rag back in his pocket. well, he says, I buried my son today. it don’t seem right but you know, these things happen. they happen. nothing you can do. he sighs. well, tell your daddy I knew his daddy. I always remember good people.


it’s still cold —
I hope no one notices
the turkey vultures







6 thoughts on “pieces

    1. thanks, irene.
      probably mostly an accident, though.
      I quite often forget to remove the “I” from observations.

    1. thank you, belinda.
      this happened a few years ago — memorial day, putting flowers on my grandpa’s grave. I’m never forgotten that old man, or his words and the way he accepted the turns in life.


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