Ed


Ed died and we gather bowls of guacamole at his home.
I see his tools, his workshop, his engine parts,
his pint glasses stuffed with pens and markers
and his daughter jerked from her own monotony
to decide on all these things.
 
Ed had just taken a shower, was in a towel on his bed, 
glasses in his hand, not a drop of liquor in his system, 
a bead of blood left a wobbly line beneath his nose.
He’d been cleaning up for a party he’d never get to

as if the liquor had been saving him... 
only a user would say that. 
I use as many chips as I can, we all do, 
still the guacamole greys and blackens 
faster than we can finish.