The Anniversary Poem
by Howie Good
Everything we owned fit
in the U-Haul trailer we towed.
The dying sun struck us blind
somewhere in the Smokies.
On New Year’s Eve, we wore
folded newspaper hats.
I could go to the old cemetery
whenever I wanted and read
the faded headstones of babies
who died in the 1680s.
Sometimes a pair of white horses
knelt silently in the fenced field
on the other side of the empty road.