Grave Digger

He toils for the dead.
He wears his hat
hung low on his brow.
It protects him from
the sun’s harsh light;
It obscures his vision
from the task ahead.

He labors for the dead.
He carries a shovel
over his shoulder.
Its weight presses down,
digs in.
It reminds him that
he’s still alive,
and there’s important work
to be done.

He toils for the dead.
He seeks out a soft patch of earth,
and then he breaks ground.
He sweats as he digs
and the breaths he takes are shallow.
But he does take breath,
he does breathe.

He works for the dead.
But they pay him no fee.
He doesn’t need a schedule,
he knows when to come in.
His employers do not speak,
But they trust in him,
as only they can.
He is their faithful servant.

He toils for the dead.
He prepares their final
resting place.
Then he sends them home.
It’s a payment that he makes,
it’s the tithe that he pays.
So that one day maybe,
Perhaps,
Someone will toil for him.