During the day you were not dead,
We took turns lying in your coffin.
How about that moist soil, the famous
Company of wriggling worms in
The underearth. I could never
Forget the smell of rotting velvet.

The cemetery grounds were so well
Kept, who knew that the soil pressure
Caused your coffin’s top to cave in.
I think about digging it up and replacing
The whole lousy plot. There exists the
Promise of an end but I don’t know it yet.

One night us ghosts played musical
Headstones. I was the first to lose,
Cursed to float around, concerned that
I might get picked last for coed ghost
Kickball in the park. Not everyone is
Always alone, huffing about his lost lot.