I went over to John’s apartment a couple days after he died falling from the cliff
he was climbing in the Dragoon mountains, to clear out anything that shouldn’t be seen
by his parents who were coming from Illinois in a few hours for the terrible job
of claiming his body, not wanting to add to their grief, which was different, I’m sure,
from mine, but also heavy, like the skeleton steel of Decatur John once worked.
I had the key he’d given me. I opened the door half-expecting Live Rust on the stereo,
John’s booming hello, the musky funk of pumping iron, but it was
quiet.
I took the weed and the bong I knew so well from the cupboard in the kitchen —
there was a half drunk bottle of Sprite on the counter, a bite from a piece of toast —
sat down with the laptop and erased the bookmarks to porn sites. On the desk:
a poem he was working on, two tickets to a concert — Natalie Merchant, Tigerlilly Tour —
a broken pencil, a half-dozen bottle rockets, leftovers from the Fourth,
wicks trembling in the breeze of the AC —John kept it meat locker cold —
a parking ticket the city of Tucson would never see paid. I left the dirty clothes
on the floor of the bathroom, the toothbrush on the edge of the sink,
looked in the chest of drawers and under the bed for the pistol I never found.
When I felt I’d done the best I could, I pulled the door closed and left with my stash,
a few grievous mementos, the feeling of having conducted an illicit act
tempered by one of a good deed done.
Back at my place, baked on fine weed, I waited until dark and launched a tear
into the clear night sky, one more nameless star exploding above my head.
My wail like a gun shot— the neighbors’ light came on.
