What The Gravedigger Really Needs, Digging For The Villanelle

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Overall, the work pays well,

caked with mud, he shuffles in his rubber boots,

you get use to the crowds that cry like hell.

The gravedigger loosens his leather gloves to tell

me what he needs at the end of the day; the relief of booze,

regardless of the backaches, the job pays well.

I watched him once pat the dirt firm around the headstone of Estelle,

his overalls stiffened as his whole frame suffused

with a cold dew, he stood alone and wiped a tear before it fell.

Inside Kavanaghs, his rosy cheeks are an illusion of morale,

for I’ve heard him say, ‘what kind of man lives with a spear and a spade, to never recuse

himself the worth of such work? What kind of man listens for the pay of the wailing knell?’

In town I see him riding his bicycle with a large empty basket, a smell

lingers; a whiff of dirt and sweat is slow to diffuse.

Crowds not use to seeing him around, whisper ‘another death, another space for someone to dwell

six feet underground. Another lost chance to say farewells.’

But when death does knock, he can’t refuse

the work that pays well,

digging quickly before the crowd arrives and cries like hell.