epitaph

the tombstone was a piece

of broken sidewalk

in a patch of california poppies

a neon purple spray paint epitaph:

his soul is with the dandelions

and the stardust and the bones

of pterodactyls now, soaring over

the naked stones of cities

where he once roamed

with one eye on the traffic

and the other on the girls.

he should have kept both

eyes on the limousine

with the driver on the phone,

he'd still be here

outside the starbuck's

selling songs and poems

to mom and pop from fresno

here to eat some crab

and score some souvenirs:

bobble head dolls

and bumper stickers,

mementos to take home.

he didn't though,

so now he's gone,

buried under a slab

of concrete scavenged

from the site of where

the latest street was torn up

to replace a leaking

gas line pipe. his girlfriend

from the gift shop

goes out to his grave

every week or two

with a bag of plastic figurines:

dinosaurs and saints,

baseball heroes

and racecars,

whatever she can swipe

when the asshole manager

gets distracted playing

shooter games on his phone.

the allosaurus rides a harley

the shortstop hugs the virgin mary

hello kitty wears a crown

of shooting stars and poppies

and the shopgirl croons

sweet idiot, where are you now?