Rod

Stanyan Street is quiet,
as his dust alights
adjoining the steps he climbed,
the mattress where he sang
of encountering beauty,
solace…
of loneliness,
of parting the brevity
with a throttled acceptance.

These are the windows
where he saw your skirt
skipping with a breezy light,
the allure,
the parting,
the shadow
that would always chill his bones.

Thank you sir.
1933- 2015