He fell like hell did through the ground
and held to the arms of a weary ghost.
On his 37th birthday, Gerry received a walking stick. He lived in a high-rise flat and had
sudden fencing duels with the stairs.
His heart grew light then ceased to pound.
He kept warm by the flames of memory.
When his phone rang, Gerry rarely answered it. We nick-named him possum.
He liked to sleep during the day upon a curtained balcony.
His mouth felt dry and sore to sound.
His skin was desert red and yellow.
Once, I found Gerry cheering with some winos on Brunswick St. He had shared with
them all his barbiturates. They ran and hobbled so high with Gerry for a night almost the
leader.
He searched for love like the lost and found.
His smile rose like bubbles in champagne.
Gerry had a reputation inside big department stores. He could carry his bulk quite well:
two jackets, three shirts. He left a trail of discarded tags and many security
guards became attached to him.
If Rosalind Russell were not rewound
then he would weep like Rossilini.
In the shade of a venetian blind, Gerry sat with a remote control, replaying his 'it' few
favourite movies. He liked to sip from a nutrition supplement and just listen, 'I'm ready
for my close up, Mr.De Mille.'
I visited twice, his burial mound.
He still listens to me like a friend.
Hey Gerry, in peer-support-group last week, we were asked to describe what grief is like.
I said there were too many funerals to cry at each anymore. I seem to accrue grief like
years worth of newspapers, which I rarely think about and keep till they clutter my hall.
It's lonely being alive at times. What's that you're saying to me right now, Gerry? My
silly newspapers analogy? Yes? Cut and save favourite clippings from each and recycle
what remains.
