Dear Hokey,
Now that you're gone,
Ma has married the cello.
She strokes its strings like
Babies
And whispers in its ears.
You selfish, little bastard
Take it with you
Next time.
Now, we're stuck
With a ghost
That can't even cook.
Remember that last day?
Four-and-a-
Half lifetimes ago,
Uncle Sam
Went fishing with Death
And plucked out your soul.
He read it,
“214.”
That should have been me.
You must think I miss
You playing,
But I heard
You play last night.
The bassoons broke into
Metal shells
And the French horns screamed
And the violins died
With bullets in their hearts.
And the conductor
Tipped
His four golden stars
And beamed.
You played till
Dawn came.
Your chords were
Thick as blood.
Don't you
Dare come home in a
Neat, stamped envelope.
You moron. I'm the
Only one who
can beat you
up, remember?
I get scared.
In my dreams,
Skeletons dance on
The graves of
Broken cellos.
Come home safe, brother.
– Pokey