he stood before my wall
covered with
pictures of dead singers,
morrisson
buckley
lennon
and pieces of his poetry.
"you left them behind
and i didn't want to throw them away"
i told him.
he said,
"i left them for you"
we smiled
and looked into the eyes of dead men.
and i whispered,
"this is my tribute to you."
and he smiled again
shifting his weight
from one foot to the other
"my own shrine in your room"
he whispered back.
and it was my turn to pause,
smile,
"it's not finished yet..."
