This day is cold and dry, more March than April.
The wind, from the North, howls mean and low.
I'm here to pay my last respects
to a teacher I knew long ago.

He taught with a passion for all things French
I was an indifferent student though
We both loved music, he could really play
I wonder now what became of his piano.

The school where he taught and I attended
was taken over many years ago.
Of all my teachers very few remain
Even some alums have been laid low.

His soul has taken ship for that distant shore.
That distant borne where all are truly equal.
There, in the Democracy of death, they wait
in the hope of being featured in a sequel.


All are actors in this existential drama
each performing our own lines and parts.
Our curtain drop may meet with scant applause,
Love, Perhaps,from other aging hearts.