Will, I am stringing rhyming lines together to spell your name on the left side.
I feel a loss I just cannot pretend is gone and yet I have not shed a tear yet.
Let’s just say I will miss the crawfish boils and the days I matched your stride.
Loping across that farm and disagreeing about things most folks would not “get”.
I am thinking of that old guitar, the harmonica and the banjo too.
All the way back to a military school and Sousaphone you played with pride.
Music stitched through lands and colors was part of much you used to do.
***
Could it be I miss the Bible sharing that we had? I an 8-year-old lapsed Catholic,
Hearing your Jehovah’s Witness testimony to God as real for you,
And next I set Catholic tones to your hippie search in topics exegetic.
Rather later, you and I and John read texts in a farmhouse too.
Latest of all, talking about your Roman Catholic ending road.
Every phase was marked by that Bible’s mental load.
Some same Bible problems we both too well knew.
***
So, I am making you a pious memory now Will.
Until, I remember all you knew about Marijuana,
Meaningful quarrels over laws that outlive you still.
Much agreed on: prostitution and pot in Louisiana
Each favoring regulation but angry words air did fill.
Remember wild child you surfed when we went to Malibu?
Summer before you ran to a Shenandoah hill.
***
Do I mention Taurus and Cajun Blue in a line for you?
It seems seeing sailing sets tests my simple poem can’t do.
Each day from now on I will know what we did not get.
Suddenly, the passing is clearer in a kind of regret.
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