Yet little can
Tomorrow’s sunshine give
To one who will not live. –Langston Hughes
How did your body look in the sunshine
when your room was bombed with stinking dope?
I imagine you lifeless, floating in a perfect high-
a thin line between passing, and peace.
I really wish you fell from that dream,
But what do I know? We are only friends.
I went to your funeral with all of our friends.
Our black contrasted with the yellow sun,
illuminating death like a life-like dream
and the casket they buried you in was dope,
but I still don’t think your father has found peace-
He speaks of the dangers of getting high,
and how you struggled with addiction in high-school
when he writes posts to your Facebook friends.
I think he sees fragments of you in pieces
of us. Like Jesus on that Sunday,
you rose from us with clouds of dope
crowning your head with blue, blissful dream.
The night after your service, I dreamt
of our mischief when we were high.
It never occurred to us to try dope.
We would, instead, drink with our friends
until we passed out or until sunrise.
High-school had never seemed that peaceful.
But here I am, stoned and writing. A piece
of you lingers here like a lucid dream,
and there is still a father missing his son.
Yet, even as you watch us at your height
from which you smile down toward your friends,
some still look down toward their arms for dope.
You left your friends like memories of dreams,
but I hope the dope at least gave you some peace.
Still, they get high, higher than a summer sunrise.