Markers

The name card was missing

on the stamped aluminum

grave marker. Only the frame

remained. Patented apparently.

Numbers 1276798 and 1573268.

A dozen steps away,

at the foot of an oak,

a small wooden cross,

leans to one side.

No claim, no name but

loved enough by someone

to stick a single stem

of pink plastic flowers

in the ground beside it.

Wm. I. Armstrong, who served

in the 3rd Ohio Infantry

has an upright slab

of pale granite.

A fist-sized stone secures

three strands of gold and silver

pea-sized beads on a half-buried boulder.

Chrysanthemums, roses,

carnations, daisies, and begonias

adorn the grave of Haley Ann

who was born and died on the same day.

Flags and eagles, angels,

an elephant and a faded

can of Budweiser 

lie at the feet of a life-sized

iron silhouette of a cowboy

leaning against a tree.

Tiny burrs have clung to

the legs of our pants, our

socks, and shoe laces and

it’s ninety degrees in the

parched weed shade

of this old cemetery.

We don’t notice until

we leave.