Mausoleum

The mausoleum echoes my soft steps Down long corridors of marbled crypts – My father loved to hike and fish. Stairs, a left, then right and at the end, On a lower tier, I find his name William – but only one ‘L’ remains. I gently touch the name of he who gave, Me the patience to cast in stream’s cascade, Then tenderly a Brook Trout to play. But as I do his ‘I’ falls to floor – The noise clatters down the corridor; I pick it up but cannot restore. The mausoleum is silent as I weep. Down these halls, each night a man with broom sweeps Letters into drawers and there to keep.