There are categories of hell here.
David died of
chronic liver disease
February 28, 2012.
Fact, I was a newspaper reporter.
I am a chronic drunk.
David’s drinking became his sin.
Sin is the crack of the Devil’s butt.
It tossed a good man into hell.
Dandelions faded with him when
the burning began.
His widow was a chronic bitch.
Locals called her “Nightmare Boogie.”
His wife of 14 years
celebrated his passing;
she pissed on his pictures.
She was simple a mindless fragment.
Her life was understated, full of fragments.
She got drunk on the night David died.
She thought it was butterscotch wine.
Confused, Cherry Lee, kept it simple;
she recognized the mix up,
it was butterscotch schnapps.
Either way, Cherry Lee helped
evaporate David’s heart.
There were no memorial services.
David’s ashes are still in a fruit box;
mounted on the top of her toilet bowl.
No urn, present or past tense.
No obituary, too late.
Only a label, a tag on the cinerary stating:
“this is David’s discount Funeral Home.”
There are no survivors here.
*Special note. This poem evolved from an email dialogue
with Kim Fregia about David, her friend, before his untimely
death. I’ve tried but haven’t been able to touch base with
her since. Her original poem with my editing can be found
at Itasca Illinois: Poetry & Willow Tree Dreams.