Gary,
You never
Made sense, guy,
With your strung-out
Hair and erratic bathing habits,
Your charcoals of children
Growing into trees
Under Lenora’s
Eyes.
Gentle.
That’s one
Word that fits.
Like we imagine deer,
Or perhaps they dream us.
Without the normal malice,
Even when sober,
Which wasn’t
Often.
Dead.
That’s the
Damned, damned reality.
Buried in red dirt
In a town you hated.
Still, you avoided the rush.
And I see you
Yet, drunken artist
Of my
Memories.
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