I knew he was sick the minute I saw him.
His once handsome face bloated and oval,
screaming warnings of cortisol gone awry.
His stomach not a 'good ole' boy' beer belly,
instead double its size on a slender body,
blood clots writhing inside with indiscriminant glee.
I said something.
His sister waved her hands and exclaimed,
"No! His blood pressure is just fine."
That evening we went to the steakhouse where he
downed Martini's as if drinking the blood of Christ.
His eyes burned with a fire that scorched me.
He spoke rapidly; and cried about Jack.
Jack, the little feral he nursed with more care and love
than Tim had ever betrayed
before.
One night he knew, he told me, he knew.
Jack was begging him to let go.
He did and downed a bottle of Scotch
when he came back from the vets.
I woke up that March suddenly.
Tim was dying.
Although we hadn't talked for months,
I called his number, frantic, whispering hotly in the phone,
"You're sick, Tim, very, very sick ... please see someone".
That was the day of his first stroke.
The second finished him off two months later.
Burning Man - he never got to the festival.
He'd once joyfully spoke about going,
with laughter punctuating that indelible
Southern drawl, deep and whiskey-tinged.
Burning man - he went May 15, 2010 -
the fire consuming him whole.
Nothing less would do…
2013@Kim Cady
