Matt Kindelmann Poet Free verse

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.

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