Mike

Mike

I cried a little with these memories.
I met you first when I was seventeen.
You, forty then, an age discrepancy.
They mattered not, those sev’ral years between.

The hours I drove for you behind your wheel.
Discussions that would never make me snore.
You told me how to use a vegetable.
Zucchini, in a way not heard before.

Your women, those relationships described.
Despite your art, were strongly hetero.
You open, honest, how I would define.
A young adult, I, stuck in utero.

To south of Lockhart, back and forth we go.
Your family’s farm, the cows that you would feed.
The city as the only place I know.
Exposure to some basic husbandry.

Your humor and irreverence displayed.
Would tell me of that beast most mythical:
Hilocometoot, not Sasquatch (so clichéd).
You father’s bedtime tales, original.

On our first trip, menudo was your rave.
The rest’rant, Mexican, where we had stopped.
An opportunity to me you gave.
The stomach-turning tripas, onions chopped.

Your humor made me, from my shell, emerge.
My laughter at your charming, clowning ways.
Now for a while, our paths seem to diverge.
Eternity, together all our days.

I used to cry each time I thought of you.
On this side never would I see again.
The dearest friend of mine I ever knew.
You stood alone, unique, this world of men.

The method of your leaving, no disdain.
Six years ago from this world did depart.
Your own life took, the overwhelming pain.
I found today you living in my heart.

Forgot how much, Scarlatti, you enjoyed.
He wrote sonatas similar to Bach’s.
For solo piano, instrument employed
to make your music. Joy, that you unlocked.

This ancient author of melodic verse.
Appreciation, now, I understand.
The many hours, for concerts, you rehearsed.
Each Christmas time, inviting all your friends.

Biography of Horowitz upon your shelf.
His album that I’m playing while I write.
Scarlatti played no better than yourself.
To my trained ear, the differences are trite.

Your seizures, at the keyboard, were allayed.
Your padded Steinway bench I have still haunts.
In Greg’ry Gym you saw Van Cliburn play.
You told your dad, a seat like that, your want.

Ascending scale, reminds us of our goal.
The resurrection where you are for sure.
The life you lead to me was charmed and full.
From minor turns to major, Christ our cure.