Over the hill, in the far back corner of Grandpa's fifty acres,
Where the massive oak he and Grandma planted in their youth still stands,
There's five graves all lined in a solitary row,
And on the end--

A sixth one dug fresh.

We'll lower Grandpa there tomorrow,
Next to Grandma in his Sunday best,
A flannel button down, worn jeans and those ostrich skin boots he'd worn to church my entire life.

She...