The cemetery in December, headstones draped
with garlands and ribbons, tinsel and wreaths,
stunning red flowers and miniature trees,
silver or green, heavy with bulbs. Some person
moves through it, squats, lifts a tree, carries it off:
To take it to his wife and children, put in her widowed
mother’s room , display on his sales room desk,
sell with the others at swap meet, present
to the receptionist he hopes to fuck,
carry beneath the bridge where he sleeps.
Myron Scott lives in Arizona, where he practices law, defends immigrants and works with special needs children.