Would you miss this world if you knew what it became?
The fire died out, the dirt was digged, the hole was made, and they put you in a pretty box,
Or maybe they cremated you,
I think she did, I don't know if that's what you wanted, you never mentioned your wishes to me.
That was because you thought you had five more decades within you.
Sadly, you didn't.
Everyone moved on, but not me.
I'm sorry I can't write you the novels you wrote.
You never did tell me your pen name,
Your alias died along with you,
I've tried asking around town,
But nobody knows that it was you who wrote the great American novel,
Nobody knows it, but me.
There is an ancient book covered in dust beneath a bookshelf that hasn't been moved in eons in a public library in a small town in Texas.
That book has your name on it.
I still remember Idaho,
I hope all the pines remember you.