I wait for him
Dressed like a Friday night
On a Tuesday afternoon
In red vine lipstick
And black heeled shoes
Digging into the dirt

He and his
White stallion of a sedan
Gallop into the driveway
Twenty minutes late
He asks if I want the top down
I remind him it's a black tie
Kind of day
He keeps it up
But blasts bebop through cracked windows

It's a black stretch limo affair
The clicking of our heels
Against the pavement
In time with the metronome of swinging handbags
And our sighs,
Knowing how stiff these occasions can be

As we enter the church
I imagine how sharp you'll look
In your starched suit
With derma blended acne scars
And slit wrists
Then remember that
You did the dirty deed last week
In a Volkswagen oven

Your parents sit in the second pew
Making pinstriped suits look crass
With basset-hound faces
Along with your brother
Who can't decide if he wants
To be here or eating hot dogs

The boy who hit me the other day
Now rocks himself back and forth
Like the wise man in the mountain
Wishing he weren't so high
When you were here,
Knowing you made him laugh anyway

Mr. Mosley sobs
How you owned that saxophone
His crying sound is proud
Proud, the way he told you
To play Parker last week,
But you ignored him
They open up the mic
We shuffle,
One by one,
Like penguins to the pulpit
No one says how they called you
Fatty or faggot,
How you died like a walking stick
And left an "I'm Sorry"
And a love letter for Vanessa
On the glowing blue screen
They don't call you faggot anymore
But the pictures in the newspaper clippings
Keep you plump
Until they yellow and curl and fly away

We leave the church
The sunlight seems so sad
Amidst social workers and news vans
We climb into the car
And with windows rolled up
And the radio turned down
We drive off to the deli
For a lunch of
Cold cuts and pickles and
"I miss Victors"