I went to Greenwood Cemetery with a bouquet of flowers
The color of cheese and a jar of Maraschino cherries to suck and chew And spit among the many rows of unfamiliar names. This was
February; the year was still in deliberations.
I don’t suppose I’ll ever visit the graves of friends, refuse to
See that somebody somewhere else first failed
To keep them. No I have not been to the graves
Of Lance or Harry, not Big Steve, Seltzer Mike, Andrea
Or the girl who traveled all the way from Tennessee by bus just to
Die on my blow up mattress, she popped it with a lit cigarette
Which dropped from her mouth in a deep nod
Another life falling shut on an unmarked page
A book slipped from the hand of a dozing child
— ADAM SPIEGELMAN
Adam Spiegelman is a writer and artist based in New York. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming from The Adroit Journal, The Evergreen Review, Grand Journal, and Rejection Letters, among others.