Hobnobbing with the Philosophers: Here Lies Officer Burnett

Detail from “The School of Athens”
a fresco by Raphael (1483 – 1520)
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By Maik Strosahl

I love a good Spoon River poem. I have mentioned this type of poem before when dealing with the death of Stephen Foster (“Dear Friends and Gentle People,” November 10, 2021).
    Edgar Lee Masters created an entire history for the fictitious town of Spoon River, Illinois, with the voices rising from those resting in the cemetery. His poems expressed their regrets, humorous stories and greatest scandals.
    I have played with different variations on his themes. I find it is interesting to experiment with thoughts of what could haunt a ghost.
    These days, many a poet has attempted to capture voices from beyond in their poetry. I like to encourage that exploration, sponsoring the “Urn Your Prize” category in the last few Poetry Society of Indiana annual contests.
    Here is my latest attempt to capture someone from the shadows of history, a tombstone overgrown with grasses and time, a voice speaking from six feet deep, words still coming from the bones of those long forgotten.

Here Lies Officer Burnett

The famed one died
as Thomas Howard,
the result of a bullet
to the back of his head
by one cocked for glory.
An unguarded moment,
a picture askew,
Ford firing,
parting the man’s hair
around the hole
opened in his skull,
leaving the wayward frame
off-kilt,
the man bleeding out
across the floor.

No mercy for one
who showed none for others.
No love for the widow or
two startled children
suddenly without father.
But what a story to be told and
retold for nickels,
for drinks,
for women and fame
until his drunk voice
was finally silenced
by another
with the aim of a shotgun.

That man
was no one at all,
just another outlaw with a
“Hello, Bob!”
and a pulled trigger,
a man with no known reason
but a wayward mind.

And I,
the anonymous law,
who encountered that ruffian
on the street,
absorbing a blow out of nowhere
while he drew his revolver,
missing me again and again
until nothing left to shoot.
Still full of fight,
he took bite-chunks from my ears
as I called for help.
Someone grabbed his hand away
and freed my hand
to find my own iron,
launching two blasts
from its chamber
to finally stop him cold.

I was
the law that took down
the man who killed
the coward who murdered
Jessie James.

These days,
we all occupy the hills.
These days,
we are all
pine boxes broken
in the darkness of soil,
my marker less tended,
my memory
among the least celebrated
of these,
the fallen
from the days of flying lead.

Copyright © 2023 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there.