Kerouac's Grave
Alone,
slicked with sweat,
and hearing the locusts’ cries
deep in my neck,
I stood over the remains
of Sal Paradise.
The spotty grass
around the tombstone
was browned and littered
with trodden Camel filters
and corroded bottle caps.
I reached into
my inspired rucksack
and discovered a Deutchmark,
forgotten like a sleepy drunk
at crowded a tavern.
I placed it on the granite,
amid the years
and a crusty half-empty
whiskey bottle
a different friend had left.
I hunched over the grave,
my head bowed,
but not really praying
or thinking about him.
And now I sit across the street,
seated by the window
in a little Italian restaurant.
I am the lone customer,
ensconced by piped-in light FM muzak.
Copyright © Matt Kindelmann | Year Posted 2006
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