He was an old man now. <br />Still digging graves at <br />our cemetary. <br />Pick axe and shovel, <br />spade and the occasional <br />black wad of 'chew-it-all' tobacco. <br /> <br />Fifty years of digging. <br />Where some would die <br />when Earth was frozen. <br />And, he had days when <br />they were queuing for attention. <br />And there was never any time <br />for overtime. <br /> <br />His sweet routine: <br />Two fifteen deep, <br />one-twenty wide, <br />the floor be square and even. <br />Of course Johann <br />was always wise <br />to who was coming next. <br />For some of them <br /> he dug with care, <br />for few with great affection. <br />When Martha, <br />his old High School flame <br />was on the way <br />for her last trip, <br />he carved the finest <br />they had seen. <br />'Twas something he could do. <br />When we last spoke, <br />three years ago <br />he stated that he would <br />retire after digging here. <br />His last square'd be his best. <br />He did just that <br />and three days on <br />they laid him there to rest.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/gravedigger-johann/
