Me & You & Donnie Too

When you died at St. Mary’s Street, when our trolley tipped over, on fire, I wish you hadn’t, if it’s any consolation, on Wednesday, had the loose handrail pierce straight into your side as if it were guided by Longinus. I wish it had been quicker for both of us. Succincter. & you hadn’t the terrible time you did (all something of a quarter-hour while I cradled your head, broken neck, as paramedics procrastinated) to hand me your bag of loose dreams meant for the Goodwill—that satchel containing what was left of your failed bookstore. Recall that you demanded I not resell what was inside, but instead cherish these books of yours.

The ones with the gold trims.

Leatherbound sexy.

Stamped proud before the Great War & eBay tantalizing.

I wish you hadn’t.

Or, you just hadn’t died at all.

Especially when I have neither the apartment space nor wherewithal, especially after today’s Thursday commute home on the new plastic Green Line car that didn’t tip over (didn’t catch fire), to sit down, to crack open that Don Quixote with his cover stained with your handprint crimson, with his jacket torn by metal spire, & read.

Imagine his resale value.

With his Pink-Red Jackie Kennedy Chanel mystique.

Don would look good on someone’s shelf, bloodied but spine unbroken, like a martyr’s still-life.

I’ve made myself another three-thirty coffee. Believing (in a Catholic sense) that you know I’m sweating through the Bostonian post-midnight, sweating through the landlord-white walls of my apartment cashless, I wonder aloud. I argue with you & Donnie. About whether all your novels, novel as they are, are worth reading; about whether, bottom line, your rush hour last request is worth keeping.

& I demand you to tell me if this millstone you bestowed upon me is just another millstone.