Can you
buy me
an Augusten
Burroughs book?
You asked.

I'd not heard
of the guy
until then;
read Bill Burroughs,
but this guy
was new to me.

Anyway,
I sought him out
in the local book store
and purchased
the book you said;
wrapped it up
for the birthday gift
and gave.

Now and then,
if house sitting
for you, while you
were at work
and some workman
came to do a job
or sort things out,
I’d pick out
the Burroughs book
and read
a paragraph
or so, smile,
get the drift,
the humour
pretty much
like yours,
then put it down
until another time arrived
to carry on
the quest to read
where I’d left off
the time before.

Now
since your sudden death,
I’ve inherited them all,
the large book
and medium range
and the small.

I've all the time
to read them now;
they sit there
by my bedside cabinet
waiting to be read,
silent, well behaved,
orderly, all in line.

I wondered if
you read them all,
or if time ran out
before the end,
that illusive
final paragraph
or so, that last book
unread.

I guess
I’ll never know;
you being
on the other side
of the curtain,
they label:
being dead.

Sure I’ll read
the books
read them
until the end
each
and every one;
but I’d rather
see you again
my dear
departed son.