“A bottle of red, a bottle of white
Whatever kind of mood you're in tonight
I'll meet you anytime you want
In our Italian restaurant.”
Billy Joel’s Scenes From An Italian Restaurant
always starts the melancholy-the thought of you,
your favorite song you always played first at
the poker table, memory now bleeds, you always
called my bluff but never out of disrespect pushed this
old war horse out of the way, some warm Souls are
never worthy of another yet the drift of time and space
seem to automate this pythonic caucus between two
aberrant friends, memories now wamble of our laughter
and of our apprehensions of death, we talked about the
philosophical retrieve of our lives, the list of lost chances and
opportunities abound within the outstretched reach of mortal
confinement and I ask in silence why did you leave us? This
temporal torture clings to my conscience like some ungodly curse,
this overture of misery affixes every thought, and the ill-fated
destiny from whence you endured, this immersion of sorrow only
leaves me when I'm asleep, thoughts are no more immortal than
the human who reaps them, an iconism of an afterthought to relive
the aftermath is just too far off to reach, this immanent anathema
will not dissipate, flushed with guilt always, can't undo the wrong, can't
rewrite fate’s inglorious page, and I can never bring you back, my dearest
and greatest friend, Dwayne Hutchins.
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