Sunday, October 22, 2006

#182: October 22, 2006

The next day Paul's gravestone had fallen down,
the granite split on that rain-sodden lawn
as by a thunderbolt. The new dig yawned,
a manhole-sized black wound, all edged in brown.

McKee said grave robbers were sure to blame--
a clever lot, as he chose to believe,
who might thus tunnel down and so relieve
Paul of whatever jewels befit his fame

in death. But we all knew it wasn't true.
We'd heard the oaths Paul swore on Devil Hill
with wine running like fresh blood down his beard.
And we could see the tracks the mud held still:
one set, leading away. And so we knew
his vengeance would be worse than we had feared.

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