At the top

At the top of his headstone


I write, thank you.


Songs of gratitude were the soundtrack


of his life.


Whatever sorrow came to call


could not very change him:


He looked into that murky eye


and chuckled,


Thank you:

Thank you for the high notes,

they made the low notes bright.



At the top of my mind now

this:

When he closed his eyes

that last time and rested his cheek

of white quills on his shoulder bone,

a near smile stuck on his mouth,

as if this were an ordinary

night, an ordinary sleep,

just another dream

with breakfast waiting.



At the top of his merits,

I witnessed kindness, I heard praise

given freely.

Among his last words,

Hey, I like your hair.