i remember that town,
forged upon a hill,
with nothing remaining
but artisans
stuck in crumbling buildings,
and ghosts.
we walked,
my god we walked
down that hill,
past the funny looking houses
on the side of the road,
past an ancient anglo arizonian church,
that was converted to an artist zone.
you peed there, back
on our way up.
the valley below
was everywhere.
the wind confirmed this.
you bought a miniature
mexican craft
of two skeletons,
one an old lady,
one an old man,
sitting on a park bench,
you proclaimed that
they would become us.
and exactly one year later,
to the day,
as i walked the early spring streets
of chicago,
on this night,
i wonder what became
of that couple
sitting on that bench.
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