Meeting

Since death, he has changed 
clothes, borrowed a limp, ill-fitting,
and a pace to match,
no longer a man
of speed. Evening descends
like a memory, bursting from
whatever dam held it.
Grief: always a bastard. 

The dead walk 
however they wish
sit beneath trees
light menthol cigarettes
and then wisp away
They also turn their backs a lot
leave us guessing; appointments
not made, but kept, questions
not asked, not answered.

If they wave
it is from instinct
and if they linger
it is to leaven hope.
If we care
we let them be,
quietly picking
our new places.