(dedicated to my dearest friend, John Lester)

I’m surrounded by sun-heated lake water,

Virginia woods,

and memories,

wondering where you would be:

beside me,

or toking it up in some oak tree canopy,

crooning along with crickets,

tapping those calloused toes

to whatever hymn crossed your mind.

When I was suicidal,

you drove to my house

and took me to our friends,

raspy voice and radio blaring

Red Hot Chili Peppers covers (your choice)

and a new spin on Ariana Grande (mine).

There isn’t music quite like yours,

no off-key,

tone-deaf rhythms

you sold as melodies,

gray Gibson neck above your knee,

the crooked smile of a madman-turned

poetic muse with a toothpick

and steady whistle breathing through.

Your spirit still sings—

I think of those squinted eyes and eternal bed-head

glancing as gulls shift between the waves,

the sound of your tattered work boots crunching

rustling leaves and broken twigs,

how you might stage a one-off based on the scenery,

evoking genuine joy,

not the fragile laughter and bittersweet tears

our friends reserve for you.

So I’ll focus on the sweet—

there’s enough bitter for each passing year;

laugh a little bit extra,

knock back an extra shot of Bermuda Black Rum, smoke a few more Marlboro Reds than usual.

We’ll sing for you,

guide our lives based on the loud one you led—

you’ve just gotta listen.