Grave Poem of Spoon Island

How is it that I, who kept my house,
And, indeed, my life, and the lives
Of my family, in perfect order;
I, who made the beds before they were cold,
Scrubbed and polished the kitchen floor each night;
I, who was always first in town to put a wash
On the line on Monday mornings,
Hung in order, according to size,
Careful that, even on the clothesline,
Mr. Mudgett’s drawers were not next to mine;
I, who dusted and polished and straightened,
Measuring doilies that they would be
In the exact centre of the tables and armoires;
How is it that I, lover of order, despising disarray,
Should suffer eternal frustration
When Eli Garbutt’s foot slipped
Whilst carrying my coffin, twisting my neck
So that my head lay upon my shoulder,
Unstraightened, for eternity?


Inspired by the book "Spoon River Anthology" by Edgar Lee Masters. These poems have been crafted by me under the title "Grave Poems of Spoon Island".

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