I don’t like getting mushy sober,
Because then what do I say when I'm drunk?
So I thought I’ll just stick to the facts.
And the fact—which would only be churlish not to share—
Is that after roasting my way through Chicago
On a hot Friday afternoon on my hot motorcycle,
I popped up right at the lake, which surprised me, somehow—
A whiff of cool air the moment I saw the blue and inhaled
The actual aroma of happiness.
And who popped into my head, but you—
With whom I learned about these moments of plain grace,
And discovered the wisdom of noticing them,
And found the lyrics and the melody to sing agnostic gratitude.
I didn’t wish you were here,
Because you were.
(It would be a strange thing to list in an obituary,
Along with your many earthly accomplishments,
“Was the one the writer and motorcyclist David Murray
Thought of when he caught sight of a lake."
But then, some people claim to their holes-in-one in their obit.
And you’ve never had a hole in one.
You do have this, if you want it—
For whatever it is worth.)