Bob Marley, you are gone, guitar and song
lie buried just beneath that smiling face
in disc-shop mock-ups of a heavenly place
where Elvis smiles, Sinatra and Armstrong
freeze likewise the moment of a sing-along;
the Mills Brothers cascading in the pace
of an old number; never a grimace
on creased glossy covers that here belong
to a ritual selection and discard:
the music industry, the habitat,
keeps these same giants working past the grave:
Mario Lanza, Tauber with monocle and hat,
enjoy it seems the sport, the disregard:
in memory, the industry to save.
