the graveyards in spain were more like filing cabinets
dried dusty bones decomposing in a drawer
engraved with a dewey decimal,
maybe a withered flower taped on
pointed out a specific drawer
his wife made herself scarce
(went to visit sis)
and in the asthmatic heat,
he wiped a tear that didn't appear
but he felt should have
after all, he had loved her, hadn't he?
it was so long ago that
he sometimes doubted
she had ever existed
had he read a poem of a fair maiden
with limbs like poplars?
with dark brooding eyes that
betold some inner depth and anguish?
had he read an article about
a beautiful dead girl
and confused the scraps of memory?
he glanced at the rain-washed miniature
foggy, but still- dark hair,
two dark orbs,
staring into his soul,
had she been real?
was he there the night she died?
yes, with a flower!
first, watered by the persipration
of his teenage hands
then wrung, and thrown,
a dead cocoon, she was
oh, what could have been, he thought
not real enough,
not real enough.