By: Barry Basore
“They bought their grave sites
When it was still out in the country,”
He said as we looked at the map of the cemetery.
We walked out into the cold biting wind.
“The city grew out around it now.”
We walked further out through the skeleton of trees.
“He made sure they were together.” He pointed down
At the tombstones of his mother and father side by side.
A sinkhole had opened up
Against his father’s stone.
“The caretaker better fill that hole
Or dad will come back and hire
A contractor to do it,” he growled with a sly smile.
We got back in the car
And he leaned over and insisted
He buckle my seatbelt for me.
I was startled, but he just started the car.
|I have written for myself for 40 years and read widely. It took the influence of my dear wife Sarah Basore—Sara Saint John to you,—to make me want to write for others. Henry Kuttner, Robert Burton and Joss Whedon are my role models.|