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Derrick Austin
At the Grave of Patrick Kelly
I want my clothes to make you smile. —Patrick Kelly
Bitten by bed bugs, clothes ruined,
I ache to scorch the catwalk in your dress of Corvette red kisses.
I’d never seen couture like yours,
colorful, buoyant, and sage. Don’t be sullen in sweet air.
Strut, cry your buttons! Twirl, cry your bows!
A swishy boy, I’d spin
an antique globe my mother bought for me from the thrift store
and where my finger landed was the place
I could be happy. You, too,
gave me a world to imagine without dullness or ignorance.
Your epitaph is legible and clean.
Blazing star, a metrocard, chrysanthemum, a pot of mint—
On this fifth day of the fifth month, I promise not to get lost again
when I return properly with a gift.