A Filler

The hole was four feet deep.

I do not know the man who dug it,
but I do know what I buried
at the bottom, before I knew exactly
what kind of man I was.

Because it’s clear to me now
that there are two kinds
of men, those who’d choose
to dig a hole and those
who’d rather fill one back up.

And I know now
that I am the latter, a filler
of holes, all metaphor
temporarily aside—a specific
hole that took fifteen yards
of rock and dirt, shoveled
and barrowed, dumped and packed.

If you look from the kitchen
window, there is no longer a hole.
First a job, then a duty, now
nothing, level with the earth
around it.

And if you ask what I buried,
I’ll tell you it’s none
of your God damn business.
But if you still persist, I might hand you
a shovel and let you find out.