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Poetry by Mike Estabrook 

Mike lives in Acton, MA.




© 2007 Mike Estabrook








I was so mad (I forget what about)

that when I got home and began

undressing I took off

my socks and threw them,

not at anyone,

simply threw them on the bed.

Yes, I threw my socks. They didn't even

make a sound as they hit the bedspread. And there

was a time when I was a fairly respectable

weightlifter and took karate, and I was a gymnast

too and am still a strong swimmer. What has

become of me? I wonder what I'll throw ten years

from now when I get mad.







On the day they

buried Nanny,

the gravediggers lurked

in the cemetery

stubbly-dark faced ghouls

in soiled blue jeans,

smoking, spitting,


against their

yellow backhoe as if waiting

for a late bus.

They didn't have

the respect

for the dead

that gravediggers had

when Grandpa

dug graves, his filterless

Pall Mall dangling from his

gray lips,

way back when

he needed work

and took any job,

even digging graves

by hand

with a dented shovel

and a hard pick

worn smooth as a yacht's hull.








All work is property of Mike Estabrook.




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