Somethin’

Larry, you jerk.
Dying in your thirties.
That’s so like you.

You always knew
how
to
push
my
buttons.

Did you bother to think?

Did it ever occur to you
that you can’t
come back
from
a fatal
heart
attack?

Of course not.
You had to play your joke.

Now I’ve got no one
to sing Poncho and Lefty with,
let alone Bohemian Rhapsody.

And what am I to do
when it’s one A.M.
and I want to eat breakfast
and talk about movies
and women
and strange things no sane person
could ever believe?

I haven’t had a good argument in years.
I haven’t raised my voice
or felt that heat rising up from my neck
in ages and ages and ages.

At the very least,
you could haunt me,
knock a wine glass off the countertop,
rattle some chains in my garage,
write insults with Carol’s lipstick
on my side of the bathroom mirror.

Jesus, man. Give me somethin’.