of the cut,
the breezeway
up at city hall,
where the stone fountain is.
where tourists
come to take pictures.
it's where he drank
from his paper bag,
smoked
and whistled at the girls
going by half
his age.
where he asked anyone
walking by if they could
give up
their spare change.
i see the ghost of him.
that blue shadow that he was.
i hear his voice.
people are never really
gone.
are they?
No comments:
Post a Comment