momentum

Moe and I used to have a beer from time to time
down at Darby's on the corner of 4th and Agawam
but after his wife got the croup and his dog died
he just didn't have a song in him,"so what's the point?'

When the first ice creaked from edge to edge of Marple Pond
he looked me dead in the eye,"Stephan,

life is short."

The following Wednesday at his daughter's wedding
he seemed to be eyes looking out from the depths
of a black abyss, not a man in a tuxedo.
The soft jazz wasn't a distraction
just a pillow so he could rest his head
between the shots of single-malt
and slurred,"I love you's"

He looked much better when I saw him
in a beautiful maple casket a few weeks later

I suppose because death becomes us all.