You a gentleman and I up from the grime—
now wind has shut your dark, dark eyes
and I am left to hate this Christmas eve.
Christ, they’re playing carols. Some crap
never stops. You’re dead and I’m without
one goddam Wagner record in the house
to play you up to what for some must be
behind the sky with solid orchestration.
Rest in your defeat, you stupid jerk,
so fat your heart gave out, so sweet
you couldn’t help but hear the punks.
“One gulp. The whole quart, Mac.” That town
you died in—so unlikely—vineyards,
sunny valleys, stark white missions
and the pale priest summoning
brown sinners from the olive grove.
I’ll not know your grave, though I believe
our minds have music that can lead us
through the tangle to the lost stone of a friend.
I get along, write my poems. Essentially
a phony, I try my feelings now
and know I fail. George, it’s Christmas eve
and bells are caroling. I’m in the kitchen,
fat and writing, drinking beer and shaking.