The central aisle – more, an asphalted roadway – br of Brompton Cemetery would be hard to beat. br It’s no Forest Lawns, Pere Lachaise, but great br for passing trade, of all peculiar sorts – a br constant stream of cyclists, br rollerskaters, boardies, headphoned joggers, even br snowboards briefly – tourists, br lovers, quaintly; and all, as in br John Donne’s verse or Stanley Spencer’s paintings, br shoulderbone to shoulderbone br desperately calling for our attention br to that which we least wish to br attend to right now, while there is br a now. br And since the undergrowth br between the aisles grows br like the fireweed of desire, br it’s Dangerous Liaison Central br fit to make some of these turn in their graves. br br On that central Park Lane, Wienerstrasse, br Broadway, of departed spirits, br the black marble, gold-lettered plot br of Richard Tauber, heart-throb tenor br of years gone by (I do a great imitation, br forgive me, Vienna mine…) is never br without fresh flowers. He must have br touched some hearts; or got around. br br A last message to the world. br Gold letters on black marble? br appropriate perhaps for br the theatrical; yet on br the other hand, if deep engraved, br if not so gravely, br ‘Where was I when I needed me? ’ br (the title of a Broadway memoir br which cheers me mindless, frequently) br might make some passers-by to pause; a br last laugh and a longest testament.