ghosts lurk around those crosses
there's a couple on Kinsman, you know
tucked in the roadside littered weeds
black craters of stolen memories
strewn with sooty plastic flowers
smeared with bygone tears
broken down old scarecrows
faded to the reckless speeders
that pass

like the one that stands
just below the dog-leg turn
off old 608 south, imagine
the anguish, the laments of loss,
that planted it there, a poison
mushroom cap from the bloody glass
and shattered skull chips
manure for the haunted stakes
inundated with the stinking residue
of road-kill dogs and skunks,

and that is all there is
a memorial
that the party is officially over,

one that should have never reached
the pavement

© Brian Hodgkinson Jr. (aka) Limericist 2007/2021