Stay away from that old graveyard
planted in the center of the ‘mater fields,
he warned from the top of a Ford tractor
as he finished another sup of black coffee.
No one walked into the cluster of trees to
read faded names or even thought about
moving the ol’ timey headstones. No one
came by to leave flowers or to pay respects.
Crops got planted around the little island of
a dozen graves, walnut trees, angry weeds.
Some said, the plants closest to the graves
yield the smallest fruit, while others said it’s
because workers don’t spend as much time
cultivating or tying the plants. He advised me,
Don’t mess with spooks, boogers, and haints.
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