When they found Eddie,
he had been sitting 
for more than a week
in his mother’s old recliner 
in his small, tight room
someone had painted
a piss color — 
in that part of the city
where gutted cars
scatter the streets
like insect husks.

The television was tuned
to some yammering
afternoon talk show.

He died, finally, in the way
we thought he would.
Some strange potion,
a concoction of cheap booze
and whatever he was 
injecting that day.
                        

He’s dead.

You remember that roller coaster ride?
The slow start, creeping 
to the bottom of the first hill —
gripping the restraining bar,
as the cars began their plod
up to the crest.

Then, a moment’s pause —
just before the steep plunge.
You suck in a nervous breath,
tighten your grasp,
set your feet against the floor,
lean back, eyes closed.

You descend into a sudden wind;
a deafening torrent of screams.
The twists and turns
throw you sideways,
backwards, straight into the air.
And then it’s over.

You come to a dead stop.
                        

Death seems to happen
when I leave the room.
First, an uncle —
more than an uncle —
my big brother. 
Emaciated and weak,
I walked him to the bathroom
in his ebbing hours, held on
while urine, black as ink,
drained from him.
The phone rang 
soon after I left.

Then, my mother.
After hours of sitting
by her bed, holding
her hand, whispering
to the shell of herself,
“It’s ok, Ma. It’s ok,”
I left to stretch my legs,
walk through the park,
breath air free of the odor
		      of death.
Her room was empty
when I returned.

And then, you, Fred.
We go….went a long way back.
The dojo in the Combat Zone.
High School in the North End.
The Corner — King & Train
where we grew. But not just
			    older.
We drank . . . mostly me
because a single beer 
overwhelmed you.