Danny

I only I knew Danny a little bit...

Off and on over many years.

He walked in with my brother when I was waiting at Abdella’s bar,

1970 something... all danger and posturing.

The swinging doors flew loudly inward,

Bright sun silhouetting two dark shapes,

Waylon and Willie sang of outlaws,

Shadows ran deep across the floor,

Long hair swinging loose and dangerous; it was high noon.

Two gunfighters here to pick me up.

Danny’s hair to his waist,

No one had that then.

These two guys looked like they meant it,

They were colorful and real.

Years later Danny was bloated with excess, fat with sloth,

We hugged when we met, unsure of our roles,

He was humiliated, knowing that his 15 minutes were long gone.

Then he was dead. Two teeth left in his smear of a mouth.

Rotting for months in some crack house basement.

Stomped lifeless, buried to fester under a pile of trash.

Squatters long gone, running like roaches exposed to the light,

All except Danny, he never left.

No surprise to anyone.

I liked the guy, didn’t everyone he hadn’t screwed?