Poetry

I walked past H.P. Lovecraft’s grave three times
before I found it. It wasn’t a ritual;
it’s just easy to miss.
A little grey headstone, hidden from the footpath
in the shadow of a larger monolith.

The stone itself is nothing much to see.
It’s faded, takes a few readings
to discern the birth and death dates, the hubristic declaration:
“I am Providence.”
Mate, you’re not even Swan Point Cemetery.  

I must say, I expected more from you.
No stone could ever match the public image