Mourning My Former Landlord

My former landlord is dead, I hope peacefully.
I should not be shocked by the death news,
because next door to our home is a cemetery,
where I speak to the dead like a good neighbor.

There is an ever-presence the dead leave behind,
a generous inheritance of everlasting memories.
A week since his passing and I am mourning,
facing the grim west dressed in grayish clouds.

He sat in that exact direction on our first encounter.
I don’t know if he saw promise in us as a couple,
but he concluded that our apartment search was over.
We followed him upstairs inside our future home.

As my lover smoked and felt high in our love,
he gently directed him to take a puff of marriage.
When our son discovered the mobile vehicles,
he sat him on one, gifting a ride from a forklift.

His presence was that of a watchful guardian,
like a parent assisting a toddler to take a step.
As newcomers in the village, he was our compass.
I don’t know what direction our loss will take.

Spring began two days ago and the land wakes
to birth flowers and small joys as grief builds up.
Soon we will be mowing the overgrown grass,
evoking the color of the sweatshirt he often wore.