Two Buckets of Dirt
We tossed and we turned.
We shredded and dreaded.
We traded and threatened.
“It’s yours! You have to take it.”
“It wasn’t mine. It was yours.”
“It was mine, but I don’t want it.”
“It was mine, but you can take it.”
As we sorted, we talked,
made up stories too.
Made up lies when we needed to.
Just to get on through the getting through
after our parents had dropped dead.
We cleaned out the attic.
We cleared the storage shed.
We searched under each and every bed.
We piled things in a dumpster,
burned documents on the grill.
We drank all dad’s old booze,
it didn’t make us ill.
We redistributed a lifetime of things.
gold pocket-watch on a chain.
Silver trolling motor,
bushel baskets of notes and cards.
Photographs stuffed in trash bags like leaves.
Nothing’s left behind.
What about those two buckets of dirt?
Buckets of dirt from an open-pit diamond mine.
Back when dad seemed to lose his mind
taking us to Arkansas for a get rich vacation.
We sorted dirt and rock all day
searching for the perfect diamond.
Even filled two buckets and hauled them home
so mom and dad could keep searching.
My oldest sister took those buckets to her home,
dumped the diamond dirt on a flower bed.
She never said if that dirt sparkled.
But somehow I just found 7 diamonds.
They’re sparkling now inside my mind.
Yeah, sparkling bright inside my head.
Can you see them? Can you see them?
Gregory Zeorlin 10/2/2017 @ 11:15pm