Deer In the Cemetery

I stole an hour from work Drove a few blocks from our downtown office To a cemetery And there In my preferred shady spot to park Where I typically meditate With all four windows wide open Gulping the afternoon autumn wind Shaving my face to young again In the rearview mirror Brian Doyle’s last book opened But today? No Another soul A fellow survivor in their coffin car I found praying there first So I give her the space Crawl on Find another blotted out lace of umbra Just as good On a little inclined peppermint hill The road so narrow I wonder whether I’ve made a mistake Accidentally driving up more of a walking path Eye of the needle I try to let it go Unfold My bible Next to me Little pale graves nub in the grass Like breadcrumbs Celtic dates from the mid-1800s And beyond Not just a deer But a buck with a large antler rack Looks back To me Undisturbed from his grazing How could this be? To grow so old and grand Contained forever in this ancient park Squared by the city? With nowhere to go No place to be free? Or maybe he is very very free A ghost satisfied with his grateful rest? He’s had enough We both are startled Perhaps with the same thought? Or was it that red car creaking on its springs Inching past us Departing Young girl looks over Book in hand Gives a little wave Smiles Either to me or the buck Who knows? As if telling us to relax She won’t tell.