Potholes and Gravestones

Gray, my hair is getting gray. Here’s a piece for everyone with graying hair.

Decay

I’ve asked
and asked again,
but time
refuses to stop
or even slow.
The leaf
still withers.
Gravestones
sprout
from the earth’s
soft flesh.
Children weep.
Rain smacks
the pavemnet,
snakes
down the street,
the sidewalk,
seeping
into cracks,
digging
potholes
even deeper.

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