Living near a graveyard
Sounded a good idea:
Not far to walk
If you need fresh air.
Stones don’t depress me;
It’s people that do.
There are far too many
And they look like you.
With the dead,
You know where you are:
They understand
What silence means;
Yet don’t complain
If you hold wild parties,
Or scream in the rain.
The odd ghost you meet
On those cemetery strolls
Where life appears abstract
Is strangely polite.
Even the headless ones
Raise their hats.
Spooks can be obliging
With directions
(Where am I buried?);
And endlessly patient,
Knowing (unlike us)
That time leads nowhere,
And worrying’s no use.
Their jokes aren’t as funny,
But that's no excuse.
