Poetry help!! PLEASE.?

[Kendall M]

It would be easier to bury our dead
at the corner lot. No need to wake
before sunrise, take three buses,
walk two blocks, search at the rear of the cemetary,
to come upon familiar names with wilted flowers and patience.
But now I am here again. After so many years
of coming here, passing the sealed mausoleums,
the pretentious brooks and springs, the white, sturdy limestone crosses, the pattern of the place is clear to me.
I am going back to the Black limbo, an unwritten history
of our own tensions. The dead lie here
in a hierarchy of small defeats.
I can almost see the leaders smile,
ashamed of now standing at the head of those
who lie tangled at the edge of the cemetary
still ready to curse and rage as I do.
Here, I stop by the imitative cross
of one who stocked his parlor with pictures of Robeson,
and would boom down the days, dreaming of Othello's robes.
I say he never bothered me, and forgive his frightened singing.
Here, I stop by the simple mound of a woman who
taught me spelling on the sly,
parsing my tongue to make me fit for her own dreams.
I could go on all day,
unhappily recognizing small heroes,
discontent with finding them here, reproaches to my own failings.
Uneasy, I search the names
and smiple mounds I call my own,
abruptly drop my wilted flowers,
and turn for home


any feedback would be helpful.