Lone Grave

We see it every August en route to the Jersey shore,
in between Stone Harbor and Cape May. It sits on
the highway's side, at the end of an apple-green field
that's as shabby as shag. Why does it hog that stretch

of grass? Who decided it deserved special treatment?
The tombstone was stolen from the cemetery of an
abandoned mental institution. No, they use numbers
to identify the dead. When I squint through the rays,

I spot letters on this grave -- too many to decipher in
that drive-by whose salty wind beckoned us to scram,
to live, to enjoy before we all end up in the ground, too.
One day we'll stop the car, Dad muses. See what that

red memento is that sits atop the stone's center. See who's
buried in there. A soldier with no surviving relatives?
A beloved pet cat or dog? A deer buried by a guilt-ridden
driver? Who would erect a tombstone for an anonymous,

dime-a-dozen buck? Yes, Dad, we will walk that
dandelion-peppered rectangle. Bow our heads, say a
prayer, and keep the deceased company for a moment.
Do our duty as human beings. After all, how many other

tourists whizz by without stopping for a peek? Curious but
seduced by summer's trappings keeping them in motion?
Damn cars. Why can't they break down when and where
we need them to? Let's go against the grain, Dad says.

No, maybe he never said it. I did, or maybe I just thought
it. I knew that's what I should have thought. It was the
right thing to believe, to feel, because that person or thing
in the soil is better than every damn one of us.