Poem: resting places

I've (finally!) been on a poetry kick.  So sorry, but there might be a bit of an onslaught of poetry posts.

This is the second draft of this poem.  I am always surprised to find just how much I modify my poems after not seeing them for months.  It is pretty interesting to seem the grow and evolve.

I kinda wanted to call this 'resting places for young bones' but that seemed to wordy and ostentatious.




 resting places

A family of skeletons always teaches their children
to give them what they want
because it is a way to fill up hollow eyes
that never fill
and are windows to deeper windows

those young bones strive to scuttle along train-tracks
where things are allotted and already dead
happy in the true emptiness and hope
found under dry crackling electric wires
and heavy gravels and steels

Still the police always return bones
when they are inevitably found
and properly placed
comfortingly among plump pillows and chrome
sockets forever aglow with blue and still
above concurrent grins as they are expected
and will remain