On Visiting the Keats Memorial House
I guess I expected golden-haired Autumn
to be there, clutching a tear-stained
shawl tight to her shoulders
and humming a breath-soft dirge.
Or maybe a procession of funereal nightingales.
It seems the least they could have done
after all the nice things you wrote about them.
But there wasn’t any of that. There wasn’t
anything, really. Just replica furniture
in a stuffy room, and your pockmarked plaster
death mask – still as an urn – staring blankly
through finger-smudged glass.