The Groundskeeper

 

Sometimes, I hum a few notes
for nostalgia—
(when no one’s around…)

I figure I’m old enough, now
to be unrecognizable
(I just wanted to hear the cars hiss by my window…)
so I get daring
(sometimes)
and tip back my hat from my weather-worn face
when the tourists come.

Cameras froze me in time
(and her, too….)
and that’s how the world remembers us—
not like the grandparents we are, now.
(the world, the world—I really didn’t want it, “now”….)

You see, we live right over there
and I’ve been the groundskeeper here,
at Pere LaChaise
for the longest time, now—
now, now, what is now?
(It wasn’t the end…and I had to stop being the one,
the rider on the storms…I just couldn’t do it anymore.)

Quiet, Parisian breezes are all I’ve ever needed
as I tidy up the grounds
(a simple life, and moonlight drives…)
I’ll tell you something, but
you must keep it to yourself:

We’re still alive, and we pulled it off,
those “deaths”….and you know us, now
as Doug and Susan Rising
(Mojo was no good, but middle names, were…)

After I finish cutting the grass, I’ll go collect it all,
the things they leave—
(I’ve got more trinkets on my “grave” than Jack Kerouac…)
Someday, my grandchildren will find it
in the attic boxes, and know—
(who we really are…. still Jim and Pamela at heart….)


Well, I must be going now—
it’s almost time for Sunday dinner, and
the whole family is coming over.
(She’s cooked up a grand meal, my Pamela…)

And I can’t wait to see everyone—
I’m so glad I met you, today, too;
take care now, until next time….