Sputterpub's Blog

My cousin was a sturdy fragile boy,
sun-sensitive and dad-less in LA,
who often visited. Then he’d enjoy
our walks-and-talks, and time my father made
for him – we welcomed him with love and board –
we corresponded when apart by mail.
The elders worried what we tended toward,
but tries to shut us up were found to fail.

We grew apart, in fact – we had full lives.
He never gave up exercise or thought.
Persistent he experienced three wives
before he settled down. He sired daught-
ers and a son; he leaves three progeny.
I think he was the man he meant to be.

The first defender of my poetry
is dead. When I was young, my brothers shot
at birds and rabbits in the scrub and scree
behind the school. Their cruelty made me hot
with indignation comforting to vent.
My cousin, older, bookish, lifeguard-fit,
was apt, supportive and intelligent;
we grew so close our parents made us quit.

Conservative, good-looking, still unlined,
my cousin was a past and future friend
who worked for government but owned his mind,
and though we grew apart, we didn’t end
relationship. We thought we’d have more time,
but now I’ll only be with him in rhyme.

The grief engulfed me when I tried to speak.
Of course I mourned your unexpected death,
but as I talked my tears began to leak,
informing me along with ragged breath.
You weren’t young but weren’t ancient yet.
You’d had a heart attack, but mended well.
Our past is now on me to not forget,
our teen adventures mine alone to tell.

I heard the news with shock, and all last night
I thought of you – we both expected more
discussions we would share, with you uptight
and me still weird, related to the core.
I tried to call your widow, wife-that-was,
and understood how much I’ll miss you, Cuz.