of dirt, a prayer bent
over
the open grave,
the flowers
thrown upon the box.
the stone set on
the marker.
there are no mourners
no tears, no soft
parade.
some come
and go as if they were
never here.
never known,
never
to have won or lost,
or to even
have played.
it's a shovel we use
to bury
these dead,
to knock the mud
and dirt
from our boots,
then go on about our
day.
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