Four Old Men, Digging a Grave

 

Four Old Men, Digging a Grave

on a hillside 
one with a pick, two with shovels
all with stories
passing them around—
stories, pick, shovels.

Don is the oldest, age “about eighty”
a good man with a pick
breaking, pulling clods of clay.
After thirty years in a 
San Quentin prison cell,
he chooses to live outdoors. 
Big guy, gray ponytail, 
power of a bronco
behind gentle eyes.

Terry in the Air Force was trusted
with nuclear launch codes, 
then thought better of it and hit the road, 
dirt-bike racer, merry prankster, 
grinning beatnik, psychedelic dancer,
wields a shovel like a pencil
writing the hole
as a poem.

David is bearded like a prophet,
shirt pocket bristling with pens, 
wizard of China,
heroic high school teacher
telepathic with teenagers,
can speak to horses
in haiku.

The grave is for my dog, Dakota,
who watches us from above
and it’s a hard job, the work of death.
Muscle and sweat, our language of grief.
We joke: I’ll dig your grave
if you’ll dig mine.

We agree, each canine 
has an individual personality
but also each carries dog spirit. 
As one leaves, you welcome another—
different, but the dog spirit renews,
rejoins your life
making you whole.

Terry says “When Dakota arrives
in doggy heaven, she’ll report
there are good owners here.”
A five-star review
on doggy Yelp:
Fear not, next puppy.

Four old men, digging a grave
on a hillside 
among spirits. 

…..

From my book Foggy Dog

David LeCount (top right) and his friend Don Moseman (bottom right) both died on the same day, November 18, 2025. Dakota (top left) died in July, 2015. Terry and I (bottom left) are still breathing, still have pick and shovel. We miss our friends. 

Hear me:

And hear an earlier (more expanded) version of the poem: