Weeds were growing around your mausoleum; broken beer bottles and soggy cigarette packs littered the ground.
We cleaned your grave while telling the cemetery attendant of your importance.
Then we drove through rows of blighted streets to your house, past boarded-up windows, potholes and liquor stores.
The tour guide, a heavy-set man with a beard, led us up rickety stairs to your bedroom. An oversized washbasin sat at the foot of the bed.
“Is that where Walt entertained the young fellows?” we asked.
“You’re coming from left-field with that one,” the tour guide answered. “Walt spent his last ten years here.”
Guess you have to be “politically correct” even when speaking of old Walt.
“Loaf with me on the grass…”
Nicer and nicer.
Left field is the only place to come from.