High Noon at the Plot

The groundskeeper is sitting on a Miller

who died in the winter of ’84.

He’s chewing a ham sandwich,

swinging his heavy boots

against the name of a man he never met.

2 PM is too bright for ghosts.

The sun hits the marble and bounces

back hard enough to make you squint.

A plastic carnation is stuck in the dirt,

bleached by the weather to the color

of a dirty eraser

or a very old tooth.