I.
WHEN You die
      We will mourn you like the vichyssoise of childhood wonder
      Like the lost consciousness of being afraid of heights
      and flying too high on swings
      until your testicles tingle like foaming fizzy pop

When You die
      We will mourn you like cigarette machines in bars
      Like engines on fire, burning fossils at ozone-fucking, break-neck speed
      Like the volumes of Scotch whisky we drank, in Brooklyn crawl spaces
      Like old men who kept the secrets of other old men’s, youth

When You die
      You will leave a fissure
      Itching, burning, inflamed, and infected
      For which, no medicated pad, salve, or ointment has been invented
      or could bring any relief

II.
 WHEN You die
      We will mourn you like alcoholics
       plunging heart first into a weighted, lead crystal tumbler
       brimming with the Family Reserve, 20-year
        . . . and just a splash to open it up

When You die
       We will cry like the bride
       who, as she pulls off her garter,
       receives a letter from a long-lost saying,
       ''You told me you were a lesbian.”

When You die
       I will smile like the wiseass child who,
       stealing a sip from his napping father's beer,
       is told by the awakened old man,
       ''Hey, go get your own.''