Often I’ll be driving and I’ll come upon these white crosses in the dirt.
A few flowers at their base and the look as if they’ve been dug into the dirt real hard,
just so they won’t fall.
Who buries who?
Who decides you’d like a white cross where the steering wheel burrowed into your chest?
Who remembers where you landed when you forgot to bring your wings on the way to the bank?
Who takes them down?
Who decides, enough is enough, let the grief end – everyone is good now?
What do you do when it snows?
White covering white, melting in with heat, and then freezing,
wood blistering in the cold.
Who buries who? Who buys the white cross? How much does it cost?