Killed by motorcycle;
driving home from
my house. Your wife
slept on my
couch. Your name
still in my phone.
They wouldn't let
us see your face.
You married my
first love down
by the river. Her
open-back dress
showed Ygdrassil between
shoulder-blades. I suggested
that tattoo. Couldn't
meet eyes that day.
My couch; refuge
when your teenage
chest emptied. Scotch, cigars,
war movies. Two
weeks, sometimes two
months. Too wild
for young love.
Her too, I guess.
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