your grave is paid until the end
of the decade
when a yellow bulldozer
comes rolling on the churchyard gravel
somebody is paid to do this,
paid.
it won’t take long, they are discreet
your stone becomes the pavement
on which children meet
or some guy commits a heinous crime
and your memory is strung
around the neck of time
Death is not my friend was originally published on Meandering home
Ché Camilo 