I stand here against granite,
admiring pompous headstones
and granite mausoleums that only
these rich and famous could afford.

So long ago they were all untouchable.

History springs from an arboretum,
dedicated to a recent hero of battle,
in much the same way it still does
from the ancient Levantine graves.

Carved of fine granite, a proud tombstone
erects itself, resembling the statue of
Webb's Clippers - not far off, the Duke
has souls jumping and swinging on Wild Rose.

The spook of a presumed dirge here can raise
hairs and make even the most radical shiver.
Such is the story at dusk when the haunting mist
emanating from Woodlawn lake creeps over the
landscape.

The water slips over rocks like invisible souls
and falls into collecting pools where the restless
soak and bathe. So long ago they were all
untouchable, active here now throughout God's
Little acre.

For now their cigarettes have finally dragged
themselves to their butts. LaGuardia's Humanitarian services have ceased - cameras have gone out of focus - Melville's inkwell has dried. Ambient spirits only reside.

They're all here, on Alpine Hill;
Yew and Wild Rose...basking.

If I listen hard, I hear echoes from
chants of Woodlawn's residents,
in hopes their glorified legacies will live on
another thousand years.
Their iconic souls stolen and silhouetted
by majestic graves.

So long ago they were all untouchable.