High Noon

There is no mercy in a sun this bright.

It pours over the granite, the flat, gray faces,

stripping the ghosts of their shadows and night

and exposing the weeds in the hallowed-out places.

A plastic carnation, once violent and red,

has been bleached to a bone-colored, papery white.

It’s a cheap kind of tribute to one of the dead

who doesn't much care for the glare of the light.

The mower has passed, leaving green, wet debris

plastered like scales to the side of a stone.

It’s a messy, aggressive, and sun-blinded plea

for the living to leave all the quiet alone.