An Ode to Eva III

For humans, it's six feet deep.
For hamsters, somewhat less.
There was only one pallbearer (me)
one mourner, one gravedigger.
The cemetery has only one occupant (now)
and is marked by a smooth creamy stone
that I found nearby.

I think it's silly,
how often I think of that spot,
lying just beneath my parents' bathroom window,
where a loose board from the fence lies crosswise
against the pitted red brick.
Dogs and cats have gone before,
little fishes and precious chatterbox birds,
but time ticked on.
Where they lay (at last) did not matter.
They lived on as bright spots in my memory.

But for some reason
this is the worst,
knowing that sweet, harmless darling –
who loved her oatmeal, her sunflower seeds, her crusts of bread,
rolled her chew toys around like a little dog,
and cuddled in my palm, a handheld hug –
lies just outside in her blue dishrag shroud,
in the cold cold mud.