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A poetic tribute to the life and death of the souls sleeping under the soil in Spoon River Cemetery.

“Russ’s face was grimy and the sweat coming out on it looked like drippings from a crankcase. He said hoarsely, “You don’t want to shoot me, Bill.”

“That’s odd. I thought I did. How do you suppose I got the idea?”

At the overnight stop in North Platte, Nebraska, Bill Wayne didn’t copy the other tourists in the party when they bought postcards to mail to friends. He was running a little low on friends these days. Once he had classed five guys as friends but they had picked up a habit of doing things behind his back, like shooting at it. The only wish-you-were-here postcard he wanted to send them was a picture of a cemetery.