Wearing My Death like a Pair of Jeans

photo by Janko Ferlic at Unsplash

I bought a spectral lamp
to highlight the ghosts
of child labor blood staining
my denim.

In a week the grassed knees
of being a weekend gardener
will mean more to me
than economic justice.

Washing my hands I notice
my ring may have slipped
down a bumblebee burrow
while I mowed the lawn with passion.

After the pandemic
I’ll rent a metal detector
with my grandson and beach
comb the yard.

If I hunch down to tell him
where things come from,
will he ever know to trust me
with where we’re headed?

I have enough grey hairs to know
being seven in another part
of the world will be a conversation
about God.