He Would Have Been 63 This Month

His paycheck was dope money by 5 pm Friday.

He walked through gauzy days with empty pockets, carrying an anger that boiled when he spoke.

The important parts of his life came wrapped in a cinched plastic bag.

Who cared about love or friends? His Harley was chained under the porch like a dog, and I would pay his rent.

I never knew what the moods were about, or the insults and meetings in the bar bathroom. I thought the world was made of Joni Mitchell and coffee on Saturday mornings while the washing machine ran. I never knew life changed from excellent to desperate ten times a day for one Vietnam veteran who never woke up as the same man I knew the day before.