Cemeteries Poem by Michael Garrett

Sometimes I sit and watch
the graves at the cemetery.
It is a solemn quiet affair.
Everything seems to cease
when there, as if you entered
the grave itself
when you passed
through the gate.
It seems such a formal place
to lie and waste
Away.
Stone and manicured grass
contrast the often untidiness
Of living.

Visiting hours must
be quite restrictive.
Because I hardly
ever see anyone
visiting.
Except the occasional
old man
with white hair.
He parks his car there
in the center of
the narrow dirt road
as if he knows
no one goes by,
or bye?
He exits and wanders
from left to right
looking a bit confused
and unsure of where to go
Next or how he got there
Alone
to begin with.


He carries with him a bouquet of flowers.