If I Could Call You

Yes you’re long gone and I’m still a man of complaint
So irony (glue of absurd eternity)
Keeps us. I miss you mother.
You didn’t like my blindness
So you were of no help
Like a steamfitter
Without pipes—but no matter
You were the funniest wretch.

In a swamped rowboat
You cried “my fishies
Are getting away”
Dead perch floating
About your head.
You were always too drunk
To row but sober enough
Death was an Irish laugh.

Of course you died badly.
You’re long gone
And sometimes
When I talk to my horses
Under the cold peach trees
I speak the smooth
And outgoing life
You should’ve had.

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