by William Miller
Up and down the main street
of Dover someone is driving
a green hearse with tinted windows.
The hearse rolls by slowly,
as if a body were still inside,
a coffin for a fresh grave.
But the sun sets on this
strange sight, the driver turning
off the square for the next small town.
Who, if anyone, will pay to own it?
Maybe it will be sold for parts,
vanish into the bodies and engines
of cars driven to lifelong jobs.
Maybe in some home garage,
it will be rebuilt to outrun anything
on the open road, death itself.
William Miller is an Alabama native who lives and writes poetry in the French Quarter. He’s the author of five collections of poetry, 12 books for children and a mystery novel, all set in the Deep South. His poems have recently been accepted by The Southern Review, The South Carolina Review, Prairie Schooner and Shenandoah.