As I become less likable I can clearly visualize my seldom-visited grave;
a bone-packed hole, an oblong tilted stone in a windless field,
pennies in a beaten, scratch-fogged jelly jar,
flowers and notes and such trinkets arrive to mildly sing the love I mildly gave.
That is, every 4 months or so, where several puzzled hearts annealed,
a carnation is tossed from a slowing car.