HATE THE CALL THIS
THING THE WORLD
Early morning, after sunrise, the thing they call 'dawn',
perhaps from then on I was set - walking the old
Ukrainian cemetery somewhere with my dog at
my side. At my side. Some of these graves are old.
Not historic old, but like 1907 old - enough for
me. When fires were still lit by heart and habit,
and people knew how to walk. The old cement
has fallen from the crosses, the old vaults are
torn open or sunk, and broken up with dirt.
I'm betting I'll get dizzy and die right here
and if I fell just right I could take up one of
these holes. Nobody would know, 'cept my
dog would be crying, and I'm not Ukrainian,
though I did know a Ukrainian priest from
Elizabeth, New Jersey. Big, fancy parish but
he angered his flock, back then, by installing
very expensive and exquisite welded gates between
the altar area and the congregants - they felt put
out and isolated - yet to him it was the most modern
and best approach to sprucing up the church. He once
instructed me on how to properly spell 'Ukrainian' -
not as 'Ukranian', which often happens. 'Remember,'
he said, 'it always rains in the Ukraine.' So, hey, I
digress? This old end of the graveyard brings me in -
takes me right to a more real world of loves and lucks
I'd only wish to be part of. By contrast, today's world is
mud - presenting nothing but muck back to me. Why?
The highway rings this graveyard now - Route 9, so
proud of itself but stupid too, and the toll road over
there. All I hear is its incessant turnpike roar of nothing.
I hate to call this thing the world.
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