Poem 11
An extended epitaph from my new anthology, Voices From Mt. Olive Cemetery, a work in progress.
Estella Murray 1891-1912 Johnny’s was the last face I saw that April afternoon in 1912. I admit I was mean to him, As mean as a starving she-dog in heat. It’s not that I did not appreciate The blooming rosebud he presented to me Six months before my untimely demise. But that thorn hidden beneath it, Could it not have been removed beforehand? It’s not that I did not appreciate The long-winded love letter he delivered to me Three months before my untimely demise. But that last line written so sloppily, – “I love thee!”- Could it not have been rewritten neater And the word “thee” replaced with the word “you?” It’s not that I did not appreciate The inert standing vigil he kept for me Three days before my untimely demise. But what was that fool doing out there? Just standing in the garden out front- Outside my open-curtained window? Could he not at least have stepped to my front door There on Friends Street And cried real tears for my departing soul? But no! That fool, Johnny Barrow, Instead stood out there flirting with his new girl- Insipid April and her moody mornings and afternoons- Standing and staring straight ahead Like some stupid stone cold statue! “Oh happy dagger!” the young Juliet once intoned. “Oh happy death!” I said at last, There on my mother’s divan, Forgetting once and for all, That staring unmoving fool, Johnny Barrow!
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