You Died on a Saturday Morning
         I guess sometimes there just aren’t enough rocks… -Forrest Gump

This time, I can’t get close to you, 
ground between us muddy and sunken. 
Your headstone off balance 

with an X next to your name,
I see you are on the list
for an alignment soon. 

I wonder if you smell my gift
of cigarette smoke drifting over the heads
of your Greek friends, segregated

and surly in a holier-than-thou field.
I guess you didn’t expect I’d return,
having disappeared in such a huff last year.

I want to tell you something I’m noticing
more and more: I use the same phrases you did. 
Young man, dear, chief, my boy.

But I sleep much less than you,  
toss about the time you belittled me 
for breaking windows in empty buildings.

Did you know upon finishing a poem, 
I save it in a folder, an X after the title?
It means, that’s all I have to say about that.