And he walked,
among them, with glistening tears
of comet dust,
and crying haversacks,
directed, by well chiseled crosses, adorned
by careful rosaries,
of a mother’s hand,
stack, upon stack of wooden
coffins, still,
remembered, by crayola,
and breach delivery,
all to disappear,
coffins of pine, and
inmate labor,
row, beyond the seascaped
island,
he still walks among them,
without a crown, and a silly
trilogy,
but as a tear, a ghost,
of tugboats and commerce,
of the forgotten living,
destitute, more,
in lonely death,
of,
seagulls and babies, the
memories now,
of,
poverty and death’s despair,
asking, upon asking, to those
of us, remaining,
“will I see you in the morning?”
©2009 William “Wild Bill” Taylor