A drunk man said it was a sure fortune
            before he passed out.  You never touched
            the white powder: it never snows in Texas
            where you learned to make oil angels
            and drown your brain with Friday football.
            But you heard a priest complain about snow
            in the vestibule when you were high
            and needed forgiveness.  No one will remember
            you died with each hand grasping
            the breasts of a supermodel, but in Milwaukee,
            a girl will say a prayer for your soul
            as she shovels on a snow day, her father
            hung-over in the great room, yelling
            for her to bring a cold compress and chicken soup.

            

Copyright © Jeff Calhoun, 2006. All Rights Reserved.