Before I heard the news, on my way
home from Tuesday morning exercise,
I drove by the cemetery and turned in,

not really thinking that I’d pay you a visit.
But something steered me to the curb
just inside the gate, propelled me

out of the car to your spot under the tree,
next to your friend Dave, whose plot
you helped his widow select,

where you’re now his neighbor.
No permanent marker yet, just a small
rectangle with your name and plot

designation. No matter. I’ve been here
before. With others who love you, I
watched the simple casket you requested

as it lowered into your final resting place.
Your spirit hovers everywhere—not least
several days ago at your celebration

on the 83rd anniversary of your birth,
the party you planned, literally, on your
deathbed with your nearest and dearest,

who, by the way, carried out your
instructions—you good writer, editor,
art lover, opera singer—to the letter.

I plopped myself on the damp grass
and took in your view, as you must have
when choosing this spot. Gorgeous sky,

summer blue, trees umbrella-full,
an antique tomb sheltering someone
you might written about

standing tall in the distance.
“I wrote you a poem,” I said,
reading it aloud, unaware that

another larger-than-life singer
beloved to many had just died.
I spent the rest of the day weepy,

thinking of you and Dolly and others—
longtime friends both real and imagined—
who’ve graduated to companion spirit

status. Though if you gals were
still embodied, you might suggest
a tweak or two for the poem.

I’m listening for insight from you,
Michigan girl, and the songwriter poet
from Tennessee. Feel free, both of you,

to drop in, humming, any time.

•••

(for Pat and Dolly)