Shovel Them Under

The cemetery caretaker is lost
Among the tombstones and the mausoleums.
That is, he’s hidden by clouds of no-see-ums
And leafy ferns. We watched him as he crossed
Between the carvings and the slabs embossed
Like legends in an open-air museum.
“Look here,” he points. “This guy charged a per diem
Of what I make per month. And what the cost . . . ”

He shrugs his shoulders, grinning. “Let this pass
As all things pass.” I think I see him smirk,
But he’s too busy now for us to lurk
Productively, examining the brass
Or counting names. “I don’t just cut the grass,
I am the grass,” he murmurs. “Let me work.”