Postby Tramp » Tue Jan 22, 2008 3:58 pm
Andre, I've lost eight friends in the last five years. Oddly, they all seem to die on a Friday. Even my dad died on a Friday. Now when the phone rings on a Friday afternoon, I'm worried. This is the end of a longer poem.
And these random phone calls that come
While the beer neon is bright
And the Friday drinking has begun.
These phone calls that shatter
Like a shotgun blast to glass.
And now my cousin in a hospital,
Now his wife is dead . . .
So we ask for details,
Tabulate our losses,
Determine our own pain,
When all we need is why.
But we say no, they can't be gone,
Look we have all these memories,
Look, please look at the memories,
We must try not to let them erode,
These pathetic scribbles in sand
Before this steady, relentless tide.
Or we can sing for them our songs,
Or to bring back in our stories,
Or to meet them in our dreams,
Or to lift our glasses high
That damn dampness coming to our eyes,
Or to make them these few poems
For what else can I do?
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.