Kees

They found his car with the keys inside 
In a parking lot nearby, 
And everybody knows the bridge 
Is where they go to die: 

The actors and the actresses 
With real tears on their faces;
The artists with their canvases; 
The ones without a place. 

A book by Dostoevsky at 
His bedside was as good 
As any note, which couldn’t say 
The things the novel could. 

A poet’s poet, they call him now, 
The very few who care, 
Whose fragile names are further down 
The windy railing there.