by Cat Jones

Sorry About the Hole

Standing there
Of all things.

Such a boy. Such a lost, and beautiful boy.
All the troubled lines never drawn by time
Sketched instead with a needle in his own hand.

Old wounds and broken bones
Beneath thin clothes
And laughing stories
And talk of better days.

Broken and abandoned.
And learning to juggle anyway
In some makeshift camp in some alley somewhere.

One last dance
Neither of us remembers
In the mosh pit at Satyricon.
One last cigarette I
Plucked from your mouth.
One last goodbye I don’t remember saying.

One less broken boy to juggle in the hall
Or stand next to in flower pots outside Thriftway while others
bought beer.

One less junkieĀ on my doorstep
One less broken heart to mend.
One more bullet meets the bone.

How could it ever have been otherwise?


One thought on “Eric

  1. This is for a friend I had twenty years ago. He was shot to death on his way home from a nightclub I had dragged him to. We all knew who did it. It was a homeless man who had been armed and broken since Vietnam. He shot Eric, and he cried the next day when he was called on it. My friend Carl told the man he’d better run, because no chains could fix this. The man did run away to Texas, and no one heard from him again for 20 years. And then…he turned himself in to the police in tears. He’s been forgiven by the law, but Eric is still dead and gone.

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