Headstones balanced against a fresh sunset.
The dark curves -
upside down smiles -
stare back.
They’re calling.
Stems ride from the dead ground.
A faded picture -
curls and sways -
with no breeze.
Can you hear ghosts whispering?
Or the soul of the living. . .
They huddle to the black gates.
The bicycle on the ground.
One wheel still spinning -
click, click, click.
Can you smell the cold air?
Its fingers reach inside.
Lighted steps hobble.
Create an underground thunder.
The roar of life -
the celebration.
With the round reminders. . .
They’re waiting
