Poems From Providence - The Poet's Press

4
NIGHT SHIFT
At two in the morning
three men pry the door off
of a well-kept mausoleum.
Their pickup truck,
concealed in moon-shadow
idles. I smell, from my hiding place,
the acrid exhaust,
yew scent invaded by tailpipe vapors.
They grunt
as a crowbar twists
the iron of a rusted lock.
One man advances
into the dead space,
stands with head bowed
as though in prayer,
or hesitation.
The moon’s full beams
illumine the chamber,
the urn, the wall plaques,
a wreath
of shriveled camellias.
He waves the others in.
They shake their heads,
don’t want to do
whatever it is they are doing.
He puts his hands
on their shoulders,
reminds them
of whatever it was
they promised.