Happy Birthday, Gary

 

 

 

 

Happy birthday, brother.  It’s 9AM.

   You’d be on your second Guinness by now.

“Breakfast of champions!”  Not pacing them—

   You never paced unless you had a cow—

Downing them.  Each one with its own glowing

   Jamie shot—a glass for every last year

And one for good luck—which was always throwing

   Brickbats at you.  Who needs luck?  You had beer,

And an undying hope behind each toast—

   And plans.  Always a plan.  I bet you even

Planned for this—me alive and you a ghost,

   Knowing that nothin’ stays alive like grievin’—

      And all that pain of might-have-been and never

      Is just another way to live forever.

 

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells