Digging

Bartelby Johnson was a regular man,
except for when his fingers are buried in the land.

His digits twitch within the soil
Twisting, churning, kneading the ground.

Long explorers drill past gladiolas, carnations and daisies
A  white field tainted with browns and speckled greens. 

The scent of wood, soil and formaldehyde lingers 

on the tips long after he’s through.

Dirt, rock, roots and dust;

cling like leeches and anchor him down.

Led by aching joints forced by trained muscle.

The dirt kills the wrinkles and dark spots
A time warp of ages the deeper he dives

Giddy and animated his hands spring to work.

Feeling youth and mirth all the while, 

Bartelby Johnson digs and unearths your grave till he tires.