Nine years old.
Paperback, tattered,
rough in my hands.
I read aloud,
third grade, simple as a puppy.
“Jesus Christ, Lenny,
you dumb son of a *****
The teacher interrupts.
I blush.
But I know Steinbeck is gold.
Life doesn’t always go as planned
for mice or men.
Goodness is soft, small, furry
as a mouse.
And gunshots are inevitable.
Forty-four. Neon jaundiced skin,
jack-o-lantern sadness.
My best friend.
Three kids.
Young kids.
A wife, a mom, a life
at the edge.
Fading away.
It can’t stay, despite the best efforts
to rescue it.
Courthouse, commitment,
AA meetings.
Talks about getting sober.
Until I am tired from trying.
It doesn’t work.
Maybe he’s tired too.
I stand at the side
of his hospital bed.
Touch his hand.
And the words spill
like the ***** did,
“I love you, brother.”
He’s in that shadowy place
on the edge of death.
I hope he hears me.
But in that moment,
I show up.
I beat the selfish flesh
into submission.
Life isn’t a fairy tale.
Life can be a horror story.
Dark, steamrolling fuckery.
Apathetic.
And yet, in that hospital room,
with bleach and sadness thick
as the fog
in the loneliest Irish bog,
there is heat.
There is loyalty.
There is compassion.
There is love.
Even when this world
turns a blind eye,
you do the important thing:
you love.
Even when you can’t touch
the pain
and make it go away.