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.
