You dropped to
the kitchen floor
and once again
no one could
save you, not even
the wife you kept
in the closet with
your useless suits.
You used to say
don't hold back
give it to me
straight
then lie to us
with what was
left of your tongue.
At the memorial,
those of us
who were loyal
and loved you gathered
at your stone in remembrance;
we passed
around the flask,
and swallowed each
burning drop
like a kind of Communion.
Smiling, we saved
the last for you, pouring
a hit right into the vase
with the flowers. Later,
we told stories
as we watched the red,
annotated balloons
lift into the sky.
You know, John,
I'll give it to you
straight one last time:
we loved you as well
as you let us,
said goodbye
as best we could.
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