To say that you have nothing but time is an exercise in self-delusion.

They tied a rag around his face so his mouth would not open,

some torn piece of old towel, ripped to strips in the laundry,

tossed in a pile for staff to utilize, nonchalant,

to shut up tight the ones who’d run out of time to talk.

His was a heart that could beat mountains to rubbled rocks,

was bigger than a Wyoming sky on the bluest, cloudless day,

could heave the Pacific Ocean aside, leave canyons bared and dry.

And when it stopped, the mountains bowed down, mourning him,

the sky tore itself apart and heaven poured down grief,

the Pacific shed tears enough to drown itself twice over,

and I downed one Beck’s beer after another, his favorite


became the nasty drunk I’ve never been alone enough to know,

and sunk myself into a stupor that hasn’t let up yet.

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