Friday, April 22, 2011

Poem 22/30 Respecting Your Memory


Well, I guess I’m not getting high today,
you said, gathering up your books and sheet music,
we were sitting on Dennis’ stoop on Seventh Street,
I wore a boys’ Yankee jacket, it was an April day
like your last one, maybe a baseball day, I was broke
as usual, Wait, I said, I’ll get us something if I can get a taste..
But where will we go? You asked because you
were always a gentleman, you had a wife and kids
over in Baruch, and you’d never lock the bathroom
door like I used to do, just one reason why
I didn’t live anywhere - Don’t worry, I said,
Come on, we wound up on the same cop line
as the trumpet player from Boston, he had a car
so we pulled over under the FDR on South Street
and you sniffed your bags, always a gentleman,
while we spilled blood and water on the torn front seat
and then I wanted coke, She’s got eyes to get some coke
said the trumpet player and we dropped you off,
you and your violin, always a gentleman,
no matter what, and we probably did a bunch
more stuff I’d regret if I remembered, but right now
the only thing I regret is my failure to follow
my instincts, I wish I’d found you again
Just to say Hey because I always liked you

You were always such a gentleman.

© puma perl, 4/22/11

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