A Graveyard Guest Poem by Michael Eugene Cantrall

Finding his grave this fast feels very strange.
I had been looking forward to browsing
an array of other headstones to see
who he has for neighbors, and for how long
in the ground, and why so young, or how old.

What? It's him! Standing in the pale blue light,
there, next to that oak-shadowed marble crypt.
And he's still wearing the same suit and tie.
And that same smile that can enchant a rose.
And he's beckoning me to come closer.

"I've been waiting patiently. How are you? "
Right. That's just my subconscious mind speaking.
"Right, it's just your subconscious mind speaking."

So, how can Little Joe be standing here?
I'm thinking, some sort of ocular glitch?

"Nope. Wrong. It's me. Just keep it to yourself."
Right. I'd lose my airline transport license.

"Thanks for dropping by. How the hell are you?
Sorry for the pun. How long can you stay? '