Shadowed Ground

Quaint houses, well-maintained.
Bigger, deeper than first appear.
No people. Strange.
"It's like a Potemkin Village," he said to her.
"Like Epcot," she returned.
Huge buildings, well-maintained. Empty. Strange.

"Excuse me, sir," he said to the stranger,
"What was that building?," well-maintained.
"I went to school there," he answered.
"Is it in use? he further inquired.
"I think they hold assemblies there."

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said to a stranger,
"What was that building?"
Block long, industrial, brick,
Well-maintained, down by the bay,
On a street re-named,
No old signage to tell,
No street number as well,
No longer in use.
"I used to know," she returned.
"I think one of the DeWolf's buildings."
"It's in a history of the town I once read."
"I'm sorry, I can't remember now."

"Excuse me, sir," he said to the stranger.
"Where is the DeWolf lot?"
"At the top of the hill." he returned.
"Say hello for me," he added as I turned.

In the middle of the town,
At the top of a hill,
Opposite telephone poll number twenty-four,
Through a gate not well-maintained
Rusty, creaking with age
Separated from the rest
In the back of the lot
Under an overgrown, earthen mound
With a front and a back, so strange
The front steeled over, yellow graffiti paint
The back stoned over,
The unmarked grave
Of the master of the trade
DeWolf, Captain James.