Eulogy for Mikey

I’m supposed to talk about you now because

I told myself I would, and about our fishing hole

down the railroad tracks when we were boys, rather

damn near brothers, and nothing could change that.

Hell, I would’ve killed for you but

you punished yourself again and again,

unforgiven until you friggin died on me,

you selfish sonofabitch.

I’m just not feeling it, not like it once was

when we were working stone cold sober

weekdays into the wild weekends’

mad dog knife edge and back.

I’d rather think of us in cassocks with Beatles mop-tops,

serving the early morning mass and stealing from

the collection baskets to blow it all on

model hotrods, airplanes, and glue.

Or shooting your dad’s Ruger at pigeons,

lying back down flat in the middle of Slone’s cornfield,

one shot straight up and damned if you didn’t plunk one

on the fly with a god-knows-how-far lead.

No, those memories are cut quick by the needle

between your toes, followed by the usual panicky

glass eyes and fidgety search for car keys

or stale yesterday beer.

But for a few good years, I hung with you anyway,

tethered by boyhood stamping-ground cred,

thinking same thoughts with just a glance, and oh

what the hell else was I gonna do back then?

So somehow we fell in OK, you cleaned up,

learned instead to like my wine and weed

and college girls, both of us practicing cockiness,

partying and fishing every chance we got.

One morning, you didn’t ask; just dragged me to mass

and we didn’t confess but rote spoke our prayers

and dreamed that our souls were leveled/paved/swept

right ready to drive my ‘72 Spitfire straight down

to the river for a cool summertime swim—

keg beer, easy girls, and jungle-rules volleyball.

That was the last best time we were friends—

didn’t care, had each other, the world beating on us together.

So we wore it and swore it and validated ourselves

but then time slowly sailed us apart anyway.

I got married, took the straight road; you followed suit,

bet your life on a wife and kids and mortgage,

(our skeletons locked in closets, best for everyone).

This was the big life, they all said, time to grow up.

But you backslid; the monkey dug its claws deeper.

Your priest saved you; the judge jailed you,

child support be damned. I understand the addiction

for escape, but what a goddamn trade.

Third rehab you swore off forever,

ticked off the list of how and when drugs kill—

cigarettes slow, crack fast, and alcohol just everything all at once—

but when I saw the case of Budweiser in your trunk

you reasoned lamely, Well, it’s only beer.

Then you stole my Fender and hocked it,

I always knew it was you, but I forgave you

with a friends-and-family pass

cuz it really wasn’t you, or hell, I don’t know,

was it the only you?

Your daughters didn’t talk to you for

14 long years, and you deserved it.

Your strung-out ex died in the TV chair at rehab

sitting right next to you, watching

All In The Family reruns and, Jesus,

nobody deserves that.

Though time eventually dries up even

the deepest fishing hole, no matter how secret,

you were like the last mudskipper

crawling out of the mire,

and I’m sorry I’m not sorry, but by then

it was every man for himself.

Finally, it was just too late, we both knew, when you

called me late long distance one night,

reaching for my lifeline one last time

but I was no salvation—It was up to you, only you,

and I couldn’t fish you out.

No, you just rode too far down those one-way tracks,

trading tomorrow for today, the current’s pull

too strong, no time for absolution,

and I couldn’t let you drag me down with you,

so you sank until you hit bottom

and dissolved into a lost, broken memory.

I tried to cry, Mikey. I really did, man. I tried.