parking lot graveyard

on the day you died the parking lot
was empty. the city had turned into
a pile of shoe boxes. gardens without tenders.
i drove in circles. looking for someone else.
what i wanted from them, i am not sure.
maybe to tell them, "my aunt died today." 
familial terms in english always fail me.
"aunt" sounds like distance. i wanted to close
every distance. sit with you again in the rec room. 
my partner was at home packing pigeons
into her suite cases. the trains glided by 
empty of passengers. the graveyard 
up the block was spreading. i found
tombstones in the bathtub & 
down the alley to the apartment.
i found myself wishing i could have
talked to you a few more times. 
nothing wild. no confessions. maybe just 
coffee & morning tv. your mug, stained from
years of coffee turned decaf. 
the summer i lived with you & aunt flo 
was hot & frantic. i told you stories
about the daycare kids & then i drove away & parked
outside grocery stores. i called lovers weeping.
i did not know what i was supposed to be. 
you set your alarm clock to wake you up
with the radio. a man hurried-talking
in the purple hour. once, half-asleep,
i thought there was someone else in the house.
a ghost maybe? one of your old lovers
or maybe your father blown from the top
of a steam engine? i built you a grave 
in the parking lot because i couldn't 
drive to see yours. it was made from
stolen daffodils & kitchen sage. in every 
parking spot i found graves. it was like 
by making yours, i had created a channel 
from with all the dead could gather. 
i wish i could have shown you
my corner of the city. the lights &
all the colors of the pigeons. you would
have loved it.  strangely, i wonder if your grave
is still there in the parking lot
behind the flower shop & the sushi place.
you taught me when i was small
that anywhere could be divine. a diner 
or a porch or the shag carpet turning animal 
after all the years of keeping.