A poem for a friend | Writing Boots

Fact

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.)