Jim calls my name from across the street
while I’m cleaning the bed of my pick-up.
I cross over. His breath smells whiskey sweet
but its only noon. His eyes are syrup.
He can’t stop speaking of Jenni. Too smug
to say something nice, so he says the same
old shit all over again. “It was drugs
or suicide, man, she just wasn’t sane.”
Later, I’m in my garage touching her
bike, my tools are still lying on the floor.
Its been two weeks since I called her number
to say the bike was fixed, and nothing more.
She didn’t answer because she was dead,
wide-eyed on the tile. This sticks in my head.