This morning, I listened to smooth jazz
in your honor, urging the saxophone
to be inspired by memories,
but now, I can't even remember your name.
The newspapers pile up, ink stains on cracked fingers.
My skin has withered away, I am full of decay;
though spring promises rebirth,
I see nothing growing in my palms.
Part of my job at work is to browse the local obituaries to keep updated on our patrons. I feel I have to fully read their life's legacy to honor them in some way.