Will, I am stringing rhyming lines together to spell your name on the left side.
I feel a loss I just cannot pretend is gone and yet I have not shed a tear yet.
Let’s just say I will miss the crawfish boils and the days I matched your stride.
Loping across that farm and disagreeing about things most folks would not “get”.
I am thinking of that old guitar, the harmonica and the banjo too.
All the way back to a military school and Sousaphone you played with pride.
Music stitched through lands and colors was part of much you used to do.
Could it be I miss the Bible sharing that we had? I an 8-year-old lapsed Catholic,
Hearing your Jehovah’s Witness testimony to God as real for you,
And next I set Catholic tones to your hippie search in topics exegetic.
Rather later, you and I and John read texts in a farmhouse too.
Latest of all, talking about your Roman Catholic ending road.
Every phase was marked by that Bible’s mental load.
Some same Bible problems we both too well knew.
So, I am making you a pious memory now Will.
Until, I remember all you knew about Marijuana,
Meaningful quarrels over laws that outlive you still.
Much agreed on: prostitution and pot in Louisiana
Each favoring regulation but angry words air did fill.
Remember wild child you surfed when we went to Malibu?
Summer before you ran to a Shenandoah hill.
Do I mention Taurus and Cajun Blue in a line for you?
It seems seeing sailing sets tests my simple poem can’t do.
Each day from now on I will know what we did not get.
Suddenly, the passing is clearer in a kind of regret.