Poem: TO EDDIE, ON THE OCCASION OF YOUR DEATH (ALBIET A SELF-INFLICTED ONE)

I.

When I met
you, you were pissing
in flower planters
and getting choke-
slammed to the ground
by a man who by name was likewise
misplaced.
You were arrested,
more times than I know,
but when I saw it for
myself, I held onto your things
for the night, as police officers
made jokes at your
expense,
and at our expense.
But you never let them
get the better of you,
when they frisked you,
emptying your pockets of coins.
“Great,” you said.
“Now I’m broke again.”

You wrestled a dragon of corn mash
and grain and wheat,
mostly allowing it to
fly right through you
and breathe fire into your veins.
It let you borrow its wings, but
they were wings of chainmail,
and weighted to the pavement.
Yesterday, the weight was too
great. It still sat on your
chest even long after the
dragon wandered off and
waited for you to find it
again behind a grocer’s glass
door.
Instead, you searched
for another door.
Behind it also lurked fire,
but out of your mouth
it would breathe.

II.

So, I sit typing today
After taking a failed bike ride—
I turned around when
I could only think of you.
It was my mom
who told me
that one of the travelers
had committed himself.
Somehow I knew
without a doubt
that it was your name
I’d be hearing next,
the reason for the tears in my big brother’s eyes.
They’re calling it a drunken mistake,
said you upturned
a whole house
just to find the locker’s
key. Fired a few rounds but
lost one in the chamber.
The neighbors said,
“No, can’t help.”
You decided to help yourself,
And found the round.