Every morning I walk through the Park,
across the bridge, down the hill…
and expect to see you.
I expect to see you
dashing from 1040 on roller blades, in your navy pinstriped suit, looking like your father
when you practiced law and worked at the D.A.’s office on Centre Street.
I expect to see your mother, beaming beside you beneath her green awning
brushing away lint on your jacket sleeve.
You open the door to her taxi and wait for it to leave, despite your skates.
I expect to pass you crossing Fifth in one of your funny hats turned backwards…
riding a bike,
or walking the dog you rescued and were fined 50 bucks, for letting it run free.
I expect to catch you at the newsstand, perusing papers, same as me,
grinning, nodding in complicity why we wait to be told…
“This is not a Public Library.”
Maybe later I’ll meet you coming home, your arms around a leggy girl…
who very soon you’ll marry and plan to grow old with.
But I expect, this just won’t be.
John Kennedy Jr will be gone 17 years tomorrow.
(November 25, 1960 – July 16, 1999)