Lincoln Park

As I stumble silently

In the strewn remains of

A once vainglorious goddess,

Now there are only a swirl leaves

In this autumn summer.

As I puddle upon the bench

My hands clasped, facing east

I hear a passing band belt forth

A funeral dirge. My own.

The brown squirrel blinks in naked sympathy

Because death would not stop for me

I stopped for you.