On The Road

this is no grey elegy
in measured lament, downcast
eyes, draped lace. No child beside
to record your memories,
too young: pale light - a daisy
you brush against to let the
sun through - that warm furry heart
in the sky - the hands that hold
you up to concrete mountains.

street lights burn for no one. (night:
You bloom dark on the tarmac,
rubies spilt on the floor.)




This is for Ginger Kitten, light of my Thursday morning. You died young but you taught us things.