You sit there, the sun mounting
a late afternoon offensive—you
sitting stoically with your place
in the rank behind, what seems
now to you anyway, to be a dugout,
a trench, marking the place where he,
the family cornerstone—that’s what
you called him—has been laid to rest
after his final battle. This won’t be

your final battle. You sit in silence,
mind protected by dark glasses,
soul protected by the dark leather-
bound, gilt-edged bible, clutched
to your chest, that nobody, but you
and him, bothered to read anymore.
Still, they who have no higher claim,
want the precious book, as they
do the watch, the ring, the car,

the money, the house, the farm,
his throne, now yours. Hypocrites, they
praise the sunlight: “God, sent his angels
to carry him home.” You know this to be a
a sign of the devil, scorching the earth
to make sure he is dead and gone. He
is gone, leaving you to hold the hand
of the women sitting beside you who
in another time knew and loved you.