Missing you terribly. And trying to deal with it the only way I know how: writing.
for R.E.B. III, 6/18/65 to 8/30/10
The blue pen flows, the gospel radio brays.
This day is different from all other days.
No mass, no kaddish, everything's been said.
We’ll plant a young tree with the kids instead,
right near the playground. Now we say Amen.
It’s bluegrass now. A love we shared. I met
my fiddle hero at that festival,
your gig. He died just two years later: old,
a lifelong smoker. You were forty-five,
ate vegetarian and rode your bike.
Six-two, one hundred sixty pounds of brawn.
I wonder if they’ll miss me when I’m gone—
the dobro twangs, the banjo taunts my ear,
the upright bass is—well, upright. Too clear.