Solar

The man in the uniform was standing on the grass,

solar light in hand, batteries to swap,

the old one dead, the new one bright,

nothing sacred about his work, just maintenance.

The grass was too green. Too maintained.

The lawnmower sound kept cutting rows

somewhere out of sight, and everything felt

like a park, not a place where people came

to fall apart.

I watched him move from stone to stone,

yellow plastic to marker,

the man who keeps what we can't save,

who knows the names we forget,

who makes sure the lights shine

for nobody to see.

He clipped the light to the grave.

Another plot done. The lawn went on.

The lawnmower didn't stop.

I realized that death requires upkeep,

that nothing here is final,

just renewable,

just another day

for someone in a uniform

with batteries.