At Marie's Memorial

I stand as still as a corpse and stare at photos,
Playbills, cast lists of forgotten plays
On abandoned stages. If the wages of death is love,
Then love fills this room. But in the corner,
Lurking like a naughty child, is more sadness
Than I want to feel. All the years of the past,
Dripping memories like rank fruit, rot
And fertilize the heart of this place.
So much has changed.
So much has been forgotten.
A lesson earned is not a lesson learned:
Those times were good -- and never can return.

Charles Deemer