In the Catacombs of London
One is afforded the opportunity
To walk, single file.
To visit with the bones of the dead,
To smell the absence of flesh,
To see what is left,
To examine themselves, upon exit:
What do I have, that they don't?
What do they have, that I don't?
I will be accepting visitors
In this tomb tonight
The last night that it belongs to me
And in the morning, with holes freshly spackled,
I will hand over my keys,
And with everything I own stuffed into my rickety station wagon
I will forget everything I lost here-
You forgot what I lost not moments after I told you.
So I realize, finally,
I'm allowed to forget, too.