My Dad is buried near James Dean, of slouching leather fame.
They high schooled together in this farm town
but James achieved escape velocity—
—flew his one orbit, became a shooting star for us to wish on.
Dad and 47 other kids worked one Midwestern foot
in front of the other toward a well-deserved old age,
carrying a generation of rebels on their quiet shoulders.
Now Dad and Jim share this dirt, and surrounding trees
whisper what the living can never know.