Thug’s Elegy
The news came with the smell of French fries, the only lunch I ever saw you eat. And then there you were in the yearbook, sitting at end of the bench like an angry package. You were the one who picked a fight after every game and when the coach told you to knock it off, you decked him. Here’s a snap of you dancing with Linda Somerville, who was way out of your league. Girls said you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, and Marsha Birmingham got out of your truck and walked all the way home when you wouldn’t stop. And now look – you’re dead. Spitting in the Lethe, shoving past Charon’s outstretched hand, sitting by yourself on that dark barge both arms outstretched to claim the seats on either side the way you did in the front row of that crummy theatre downtown while everybody else went up to the balcony to make out.
There are sounds that wear
the heart away – not you, not
you, you, but not you.
* Ron Koertge is a poet living in Southern California. His latest book is FEVER (Red Hen Press).
