Driving south on Highway 6
I saw three freshly turned
mounds of earth in a roadside graveyard.
In the cool evening rain
the soil was still thick
and black, the flowers still crisp and yellow,
and the graves, so close
together could only mean that they knew each other.
They died together.
And I thought, if I died, you would bury me.
If you died, I would bury you,
but if we both died together, would
we know the hands that pushed
the first mound of dirt on our coffins?
Would we care?
Would we remember?