You will find a lone, marked grave
Near a small grove of trees
He was the doctor for the small town
Where everyone died of cholera
 

It was proximity to the brown river
The mud and the green algae on
Big flat rocks surrounded Miltonville.
 

The migrating birds stop here to rest
Before the big push across Lake Erie
I assume they always have, even when there
Were people washing clothes in the river
 

The doctor did what he could, not much,
Mostly he would comfort the dying and those
Still alive, he had no panacea, he didn’t know about
The water.