Self-interest cropped up even there,
the day I hoisted three instead of the
called-for two
spadefuls of loam onto
the coffin of my friend.

Why shovel more than anybody else?
What did I think I’d prove? More love
(mud in her eye)? More will to work
(her father what, a shirker?) Christ,
I’d give an arm or leg
to get that spoonful back.

She cannot die again; and I
do nothing but relive.