Conifers shade a jaded path leading to potter’s field  

there’s a lamppost at its gate casting a dusky glow.

The light makes the granite slabs appear lucent  

  it’s a scene signifying the march of time

We drag our feet to its cadence

fraying pine needles on the pavement.

The small twists of brown resemble tumble weeds

  blown by autumn’s wind,

A groundskeeper sweeps the remaining debris

  away from dates etched in stone.

Few visitors solicit the stories of indigents.

    The trees with their needles falling and

the monuments scattered about the field

are all peripheral-dying alone is central

How the least common are swept aside

  as their footprints fade.

     It’s as if we’ve become disconnected as humans

letting our neighbors die without ever knowing their names.