Salt falls on veneer Veiled in pauper’s wood, The clock-watching chaplain sweats As I refuse to leave you. Staring at your headstone, Looking at its immortalized syntax Chosen at random by your rushed mother Who coped when I faltered. It’s quiet here, and fragrant colors are riot near. At least you’re under the willow You liked the thought of it weeping above you And all I can say, in predictable cliche, Is, God, how much I love you. I stare at the topaz clouds, damasking heaven's constant eye, Wondering as I'm watching you If you are watching I. For now, I want to believe-- People always do, when they grieve. Your epitaph, emblazoned in appropriate Catholicism: Words describing an everyman. It doesn’t matter to me, For you are inscribed on my soul.