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Poor kids stopped wearing his clothes
back in the early 80s.
Even the ones he wore in photographs
were tossed out on his mother's death.
No one remembers his shirts or his socks,
his blue suit, his brown suit,
or the shoes he shined fierce enough
to see a face in
back when he had a face.
And if they can't remember
what he wrapped his body in,
then who can remember his skin,
or the flesh beneath, or the bone, the marrow?
Who, in this town, knows the red of his blood,
the ripple of his sinews?
Who hears the echo of any of his words?
Who stands at the edge of the pond, these days,
and remembers cops dragging the body out,
let alone, him splashing crazily in these waters,
with a wild bunch of half-naked friends?
Who are those friends? Why aren't they here?
Who's wearing what they wore in 1973,
the grubby t-shirts they sported,
the shorts that rubbed against their bony thighs,
as they heard the news?
I'm standing on the banks in a cheap
but comfortable slacks and shirt combination
I bought in a department store just last year.
Can't even recollect his name.
Memories move on.
They even dress differently.
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