A poem by Charles Farmer
They would name things after you.
City streets that people have to take,
maybe a terrace or circle.
A charity, post office, cancer awareness rally.
But you never leave the county.
Everything is off the rack.
You settle for prints instead of paintings,
Valentine’s Days at chain restaurants.
Holly Golightly without the guitar, cat, and window ledge to barter.
You can toss back your hair all night, but no one ever underlines “pedestrian,” honey.