The Burying Place
Devils dance in an empty brain,
So as I wend among headstones
That drip from the brief-paused rain
I live the lives of those whose bones
Are now as dust, but gathered near
On May the first to march and drill
With shot and powder, then repair
To handy inns to drink their fill.
Or those who hated drink like sin
And got Zophar Wetherbee’s vow
To serve no liquor in his inn
(Where the old library squats now),
In return for compensations:
Black tea and coffee, left for sale
As the principal libations
Did not please men as well as ale.
Buried here are merchants, housewives,
Here a farmer, there a blacksmith,
One slave, we know; children—short lives
Were not rarities to deal with.
Some whose families still live here,
Growing eggplant, peppers, and corn.
Other names to our streets adhere
Though the eponyms be long gone.
Ministers are high-praised—they were
Godly, pious, solemn, and grave,
Not much fun, perhaps, but ever
Seeking eternal souls to save.
But the sky is looking evil,
Inky clouds toward Bare Hill Pond.
And I’m hearing from a devil:
“Go to General, meet le monde.
Get some coffee, maybe a snack.”
(Devil really knows her victim.)
“The dogs can wait—don’t yet go back!”
Devil revels; “Hah! I tricked him!”
(As I pour my coffee steaming.)
“While he dawdles, now let it roar!
Lightning flashing, gutters streaming,
Let the rain on the Common pour!”
—John Martin
Fairbank Street
