Drums

Drums

How many elegies are enough—
the tone, the muffled drums,
the heart pressed to dirt.

The leaves, having ridden
the grass so long lies mulched
and mounded over the beds.

The guy down the block
who hasn’t spoken to
me in more than twenty years, said

his brother has pancreatic cancer
tumors everywhere. Holding out
his hand he said Parkinson’s.

The tumors start when it gets cold
Gale warnings and snow.
He stands at his mailbox

in shorts and a t-shirt, socks,
slippers. He’d watched the
hearse

carry off the old man across the street.
He guesses he’ll be next.