7832. OCCUPATIONAL DISTAFF

OCCUPATIONAL DISTAFF

Up atop that hill where Jenkins lived, the

car wanders down in a storm of dust; we lived

alone here, distant and afar. The stories were

enough to still the heart, and that little graveyard

shuddered. Nothing had been touched there in

thirty years. My broken camera was a bakelite

black, of the sort no one uses anymore, nor

have they in seventy years. My ghost has

come back to carry the load, and I walk

the same hills I speak of. Everyone's

dead now, and I see where Jenkins

lies. The old graveyard, opened

now and so active, is filled with

all the names I knew.