Fear of Death Poem #3

My grave is the dog barking at the mailman, her whimpering 

when I shut the door behind me, a lost moment spent chasing

the robins in the crab-grass dandelion park near my apartment.

My graves are the shadows that fall over the mattress on the floor, and the 

books that are too numerous for the shelf--so line the walls in stacks--give

each shadow the promise of a bedtime story.