More poemage:

Faced with an afternoon all to myself, when several things I might have done fell through and I was left to my own devices, I actually decided to treat myself to my favorite things.  So amazing to me, that I even knew what they were anymore.  Clear head is wonderful.  So I went to the State Cemetery where I had a nice conversation with a stranger, and to Natural Treasures rock shop, where I bought myself a rock or three, and rode my bike around until I was tired enough to get on a bus for home.  I shared my orange with a bum waiting for the bus, and once boarded sat calmly through the meth-head next to me getting bitch-slapped (twice!) by his nutso cohort, though I wanted to feel as though I should have intervened.  While I was sitting in the cemetery I sat down to write and this came out:

Cemeteries soothe her, the comfort of the 

promise of death less morbid than centering.

Long impatient, ever perfectionist, she loves

a goal toward which she need not strive.

Reclining on a stranger's grave, unsure of any

afterlife, she communes more with the life lived

than the liver.  At these times it is easy to 

imagine the day that this shading tree, the

soft grass beneath her back, will have covered her

for longer than she will live.  She arises content, 

prepared to make of it what it will have been.

Isolated graveyards have their purpose, she

supposes, but prefers those that are overrun with life.

Traffic noise should counterpoint the creek beside

the willow, bustling homes be visible from every

lonely plot.  Her favorite boneyard sits beside a 

school--an orange never more delicious than one

eaten crouched among the solemn influenza 

victims to the lively strains of recess.