In Lieu of Flowers

I stopped to double-knot a frayed-out lace

and sat where Elaine used to watch the street.

The brass is cold, a small and quiet space

meant to hold the weary and the beat.

She loved the view of the 42 bus line,

or so the plaque says in its formal script.

I wonder if she thought the smog was fine

or if her heart, like mine, had slowly slipped.

Between the slats, a brown and crispy head

of a dead carnation is wedged into the grain.

It’s a strange conversation with the dead

when you’re both just waiting for the rain.