A Shortcut Through the Quiet

The bus driver didn't apologize for the orange cones

or the three-mile swing around the sinkhole on 4th.

He let me out where the sidewalk ends in weeds

right by the iron spikes of the memorial park.

Someone jammed a Diet Coke can into the gate,

a silver glint against the rusted Victorian vines.

The cemetery at night doesn't feel like a holy place,

just a crowded neighborhood where nobody pays taxes.

The granite slabs are yellowed in the moon,

crooked and jagged like a row of unbrushed teeth

waiting for the ground to finally finish the meal.