At Home in the Graveyard

It's the last Saturday for Leigh. Another institution is dismantled and hauled away. "The Jazz Image" folds. It's aired since I was eleven, and now it comes to an end.

So long Mr. Kamman. You now go the way of Tiger Jack, Met Stadium, Steve Cannon, my neighborhood Five and Dime, and all ephemeral glories.

The last notes are played, slow and soft. What notes are they, those dissonant sounds? Just two more and it's over. Have them hold 'em for a few bars, won't you, Leigh?

One day I'm going to get on a bus, an old Greyhound, and go where all the good things go. One day enough of them will have passed that the temptation will be too strong, and the pull to remain too weak, and I'll ride.

Men declare "it's all fleeting," but that's not the same as it's all vanishing.  One day I'll find where it gathers, and live in that world, under that sun.

And when I'm gone, and those around me are gone, and pillars topple and ruins are replaced with new monuments, they'll say, "Nothing lasts forever." But I'll be where the good things do, if they'll have me.