Kerouac's Grave, 10/17/94

by

Thomas Michael McDade

The geraniums have given
up but not the orange
and gold chrysanthemums.
Shoes and knees
or booze poured
to anoint Jack
killed the grass.
The sun sops up
the last cheap drops
of a pilgrim’s forty
ounce tribute.
A fuse of leaves
crosses gray soil
to a pumpkin yet to be
carved in homage.
A duo of cigarettes is poised like
ante of gamblers gone broke.
A young guy pointing at
a half done white candle
says only night visits count.
Once again, youth knows all
in smoke, beer and maybe
a Miles Davis tape solo.
The old ones labor
to crowd their minds
with poems and prayers
as fingernails slice mums
for cleavage or lapel.
They wonder which
of Jack’s pages
will press best.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Love Arranged
by: Miryam Nahar
from: Warwickshire, England, UK

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