Your headstone
is an old bone lacking
the muscly movements
of the reality
that was you;
the epitaph,
speaks nothing to honor
the things you accomplished,
however small you saw them,
and the remenates below
do no justice
in respect to your former glory
so I know you won’t fault me
for not visiting.
I pay homage to your memory
when I look in the mirror
eyeballing imperfections
when I suddenly remember
where I’ve seen the shape of that nose
and in recalling
the pockets of bygone advice
you built into me
and in dreams
where you still visit
sheepishly apologizing
for things
I’d never condemn you for.

We partied after the funeral
and someone puked in the neighbor’s bushes.
I think you would have found that hilarious
if not a pretty fitting tribute.

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