The phone hasn’t rung me awake
Which is a damned good thing
Especially at 3 a.m., the time
At which they killed you.
My father always said nothing
good happens after midnight.
So why were you in that field
Of darkness, of darkness?
Those stones were so heavy,
And you were always skinny.
Your bones must have burst
To blood like water balloons.
So much I never heard;
Even your brother wouldn’t talk.
I know it was about drugs;
Back then, everything was.
So it’s 3 a.m., and I’m wishing
I still had one of your drawings,
Something in graphite and pulp,
something other than your dying.
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