Do you know
that cemetery
on Grant or Maple
I drive pass
wishing I had a stone
pointing to the sky
with my name engraved
to place flowers
or a wreath
since I don't
think it will
ever get done,
once I die
A flower
is all I ask
from some
lonely, passerby
to question
why
my stone is left
bare and dry
So as I walk
I am the man
who keeps passing by
searching each stone
left unattended
and forgotten,
with decorations
scarcely by
looking for the one
that will catch
my eye
a name that's a reflection
that of my own

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