A construction crew found my jacket
Decaying in Bell Park.
I thought it was buried, thought she
Was buried deep enough, the dirt, mud
Swelling above them for what seemed like
A mile. A curious find, the reporter
Said, a letterman jacket,
Red stains on the front, covered
By a few feet of dirt. She would be
Found soon, the jacket’s death-mate,
Uncovered only several yards away.
They will see her grey skin peeling
Back away from bone like birch bark.
They will lift her gently out, several
Men will cradle her like a baby.
They will soon decipher the worn
Name on the jacket, and come here
To find me, but I will not be here.
I will be on the bridge
Where we met after the game.
I will stand on the railing, my arms
Prostrate, and I will stare
Into the black of the water.
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