After Party (poem)

There's only seven shots
of whiskey left in that bottle
but we pass it around
as if it were a bottomless glass.
What time is it now -- sometime
after 4AM. We are at the bottomless
party. Keep up the drinking,
keep up the conversation, keep up
the idea that we're all young
and beautiful and captured
in the shadow of the moon.

We are having such a good time,
those of us still standing.
You and I had better do something
about that.

Swig of whiskey, passive aggressive punch.
Blocked, deflected, guarded blows
to the gut of our friendship. Here we go
again.

We should know better, but the whiskey
convinces us otherwise and we bicker
about something only we understand
until you sling your arm around the girl
closest to you and declare her your new
best friend. I smirk at her and squint
and retort, "Be careful what you wish for."

The whiskey isn't gone yet, but your face flattens
and you turn to the host and say you're going
to bed. The room spins towards me and I am left
standing with the bottle in my hand.

The Laughing Dead (poem)

On the day of your funeral,
I walked right by you on a crowded sidewalk.
You were laughing with your mouth
wide open. I could see your teeth.
I could see the creases around your eyes.
I didn't even pause. I brushed right by
and nothing had changed. You were still
dead. Nothing could bring you back,
nothing could fill your lungs with air,
nothing could stop the what-to-come
of a few nice words (albeit brief)
before scattering your ashes
in the early winter air.