For Herb, a Proper Place
I would have known.
I passed his widow's house today,
the weeds a foot high on the lawn;
the walk and drive unswept.
Herb had little patience for disorder;
taking careful care of his belongings
far beyond intrinsic worth.
He lost little time in idle chatter
and talked to neighbors only to complain
about their dandelions and leaves;
and spend his hours looking for windows
to putty, nail holes to fill,
and daily got down reverent on his knees
in search of anthills to destroy.
His widow shed few tears at his demise.
She said Herb saw beauty only in perfection,
and was too exact for this unruly world.
Death for him was made to order.
The grave, though dark and dismal, is tidy
and unchanging, and for Herb a proper place.
Hugo De Sarro is a former adjunct college
English instructor. He's published in a variety of literary
journals, here and overseas, including Eureka Literary Magazine,
Pulsar, Colorado Review, PDQ,Oklahoma Literary Review, Snowy
Egret, Black Bear Review, and others. |
