8/30 2014

For Tony


I wonder, Tony, if you would have laughed
knowing how you died.  You were always
laughing, Tony.  You were all chubby cheeks
and teeth, eyes squinted so hard tears jumped
from the corners. I'M NOT CRYING! before
launching into another fit of giggles & pounding
the tan wood of the desk.  I wonder if that desk
misses you like I do.  I wonder if it dreams of
your pencil gliding across its face; of doodles
and braggadocios rhymes.

I only saw you serious one time, Tony.  You had
two days left of summer school to ensure promotion
to the ninth grade. It was hot, you had your house
shoes on, feet up on the desk like a bad 80's movie.
You got a text: best friend got jumped behind the KFC,
you sighed like a brick from a window, jumped the fence
and never went to school again.  Just like that. 

When that boy shot you, Tony, did his finger
point like the disappointment in your mother's
eyes?  Did it curl like he did on the ground as
you pulled his snarling attackers from their prey,
fists and face and blood?  Did you smile when
he stole that twomp - show your teeth at the silver
of the muzzle, did you double over with laughter
when the bullets ripped through your stomach?

Tony, did you watch your blood pool on that
balcony, drip between the rusting struts onto
the asphalt below like tears forced from squinted
eyes?  I want to believe you laughed, Tony.  I want
to believe you did.