A Year and One Month After Your Death
for Greg
You came to the Christmas party wearing a maroon tuxedo,
puncturing our new-adulthood gravity with a ruffled shirt,
like a relic from someone's bad prom.
We danced to Frank Sinatra and toasted with brandy,
sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” on the front porch
without a trace of irony.
You charmed all the visiting writers
with your dry alcoholic wit, fueled by Jameson’s or Glenlivet;
you got it free because you were the bartender.
Was it single malt scotch you were drinking
when you wrapped your car around that tree
Sunday morning on Long Island?
I couldn’t go to your funeral;
nobody had directions, and I had to work anyway.
But last month I developed long-neglected rolls of film;
Your face stared out at me,
bearded, heavy-lidded and a little bored.
I poured myself a scotch and stared back.
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