Two men who shared my memories are dead.
One shuffled off the coil two years back.
The other just destroyed himself, I read
in missive from his adult son. The fact
that cars collided doesn’t change the truth
no mourner will admit, but I refuse
to whitewash traits encountered in my youth –
I understand the consequence of booze.
I never dreamed I’d see those men again,
but death has made that certain. None expects
a specter, but I thought that now and then
I’d figure as a memory of sex
or conversation in those heads I knew
so well. I guess I died a little, too.