I have more eternal resting places
Than I could ever keep track of, but this one
May be my favorite: polished limestone,
The laughter of children as regular
As the irrigation hiss, a weekly mow
As if I am, even now, respectable.
There are others with ocean views, I know,
Some more respectful when my bones need to rest,
But this one suggests almost a person
Behind its dated trappings of renown.
We're so blessed to do things this way, slap a
Marker down so we can forget the great unknown.
The universe did fit into its form
Though that was never what was to be proven
When la Rue de la Fortune blew in like the wind
To infuse every moment, every inch.
It's like the children here came out of its ground
And its words inspired weekly town sermons,
As if something actually happened
To inspire all the prayers of waste and loss
And our failure to notice obvious things,
Like tomorrow is the same sky, different clouds.
The old songs are always meant to be sung
Again, at other points of attention,
AKA authentic, finally separated out
To present the evidence, rest the case,
Speak the peace, and call in the just desserts team
To allay any fears, find the gift, modify
The hypothesis, face the now danceable music
With what breathes, despite it all has a pulse.
