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THE FLOATING GRAVEYARD

By Daniel Gene Barlekamp



The water and the weeds

have taken over

this place.

Islands of graves

dot the surface—

an acre here,

a plot or two there—

in all directions.

Granite headstones

turn black with moisture

where the current laps

their bases.

One can only wonder

what lies below:

soggy coffins,

barnacled bones.

 

By my side,

I find a friend

I haven’t seen

in years.

I think

he might

be dead,

perhaps searching for his place

among the graves.

Together we wade

through the water.

Some spots are deep,

others

shallow.

I need

to watch

my step.

I can’t swim.

 

At last we reach the gate

where the water ends

and the concrete begins.

On the other side

of the bars,

people do the things

the living love to do:

watch fireworks,

go to Target.

 

We look on.

 

I reach for my friend’s wrist

so I don’t lose him again,

but he has already

drifted

away.

With nowhere else to go,

I turn inward

and try to find my way home.


© Copyright Dark Poets Club

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