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.