Seventh Street, Lawrence

By John I. Blair

If ever I believed in ghosts
This would be the place.

The old house, nothing special,
Is let to students I should think,

Three efficiency apartments,
Shabby, plain, but clean.

Under the ragged lilac bush
A weathered stone protrudes,

Some words inscribed,
Names of four men shot here

In 1863, Quantrill’s raid. They killed
All males fourteen years and older

They could catch. No mercy
And but little pity.

Victims now of frost and rain,
The fading words

No longer can be read
Without a guidebook.

A damp breeze
Brushes past the lilac’s leaves.

It’s late at night. I’ve had
Far too much to drink.

©2009 John I. Blair