I walked all the way to this cemetery, from my house by the river.
It’s the first of Autumn, and the chill has finally come, and rusting colors.
My beat up Walkman still holding on, with those soft, winsome tunes.
Lose myself in that music, in the quiet of the dead, of the coming cold.
I sit by a statue, Jesus and the woman at the well, smoking French cigarettes,
dreaming of the older girl who bought them for me, first girl to call me cute.
Those lovelorn songs, and the gold and red of Autumn, so easy to dream of love.
She mocks me for liking King, so I read Steinbeck for her, to try to please her.
My heart races, thinking of her face, and her husky and harshly caring voice.
I dream of us sitting by this brick facsimile well, smoking French cigarettes she likes.
We could talk down the sun, and hold hands, and maybe we could kiss some too.
Among the dead, flowers still bloom in April, and I still hope for her as winter comes.