E. A. POE OF BALTIMORE
On Sundays, the churchyard is locked.
The padlock seems fragile
forcible with a paper clip.
Yet people respect symbolism.
Still, the grave is visible.
A zoo--who looks out at whom?
Poe, his mother-in-law,
that fabled tragic bride,
all three married in an instant,
an occasion for mother-in-law jokes
that quell the passion of eternity.
The grave is unmarred,
the carving crisp.
Someone at least remembers.
It is not Morrison's grave
in Pere Lachaise.
No Krylon, smack, wine,
or weed.
No raven perched either--
that is always the
ha-ha question.
Poe's house is on Amity Street
but amity is in short supply.
The ghetto is desperate,
windowless bars and bodegas
with unrefrigerated meat.
People look at you without welcome
until you've overstayed it.
Why would you come here
white boy
unless you're here to cop,
change your luck,
serve someone a summons?
His house too is closed.
There is a number to call
for information.
"Edgar and Virginia are at home
to guests only by appointment.
If you hear Mrs. Poe moaning upstairs
kindly take your hat, cane, and leave."
He bought the house in 1832.
It was not quaint,
it was his home for three years.
Now it is the only house on Amity
that is not an illustration
from one of his horror fictions.
Every year someone comes
on his January birthday,
leaves roses and cognac
on the grave.
The roses are there
much worse for wear.
The missing bottle is the setup
for an unfunny joke: go read it
in someone else's poem.
Poe deserves a better fate.
His death, like the life that
dragged him behind it,
holds dignity through mystery.
KTW/3-9-05
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