The palms
are psalms.
The nail salons,
manicured lawns.
This is some phase.
The park has been razed.
I miss the hip,
hours at a clip,
their dopey glazed
Dolores haze
(sorry).
I worry
about basic stuff:
my graying scruff,
Ambien addiction.
Eviction …
— But there’s another story:
this site was once a cemetery.
In 1888,
the late
were stirred,
disinterred,
carted somewhere calm, a
nothing place called Colma.
By then the dead
prohibited
in city light.
They thought this was all right:
the dead have nothing to lose;
the dead were Jews.
Hills of Eternity, Home of Peace:
the dead were put in their place.

Source: Poetry October 2016

Randall Mann

Biography
More poems by this author

from Poem of the Day http://bit.ly/2gEEjXT

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