Stacked Stones by Sid Miller Because we were there, thousands of miles from home—because we had  time, possibly because time was ready to turn to spring—we looked, searched, or better yet sought his grave, his stone.  Myself, never there, none of us, there enough.  It was almost the end of winter, but still so cold and the cemeteries that line that stretch of Long Island are endless—the car full of U-turns.  Yet somehow still we found it, but as we pulled in, the caretaker began to pull out. So we pleaded (maybe not enough, with dollar bills in our hands) for him to take a few minutes, some pity, to take us to him.  For the cemetery was and is so full of stacked stones.  But still he refused, drove off, left us in the heated car.  We had tried, was that enough?  These kinds of things we just don’t know. Sid Miller United States Sid Miller’s poetry has appeared in numerous places, including Margie, The Comstock Review and Rattle and is forthcoming in journals such as Goodfoot, Cider Press Review, Karamu, and Boom! For Real.  A Pushcart Prize nominee, his chapbook Quietly Waiting was published in 2004 by White Heron Press.  He is the editor of the poetry journal Burnside Review.