From "'Sketches (preface to a Jazz Painting)" by Durand J. Compton

Spade broken and feeble.

‘I’ll be here all night,’ he sobs. When dawns moisture matted the grass, the laughter had lost but the coffin remained. The hole was not enough, what with taxes and the hidden stones.

Wipe the brow, soil streaks cigar smoke.

‘I would not do this, if I loved you,’ he used to say. Dead laughter has taken liberties with her swollen throat. She never heard the children or the scars the tires left. Neighbours flee the sandlot where weeds dream of lesser nights.

For a few weeks, at the very least, the coffee halted ages pen. Long lines of memories grafted to his face. With all remorse and longing, trips up the stairs calling- ‘You are not what I meant. I am not the artist. I need you. Dig my ditch. Etch the stone. Sing the song. Light up my life.’

He left the attic empty, feeding on the dust. He spends the nights alone these days and sleeps beneath the cellar.

They never found the body but the laughter lingers on.