Tracy

Tracy was a cool cat.
Lived with a bunch of
junkies on the north
side of town, in a low-rent,
pay-by-the-hour hotel room.
I was always stunned that
he came to work each morning
on time and sober. I was a
lowly dishwasher; he was a
chef, the boss's right-hand
man. To me, for some reason,
he was like James Dean,
strapping, cooler than words,
never in an awkward position.
I never understood why every
day when the sun went down
he too slipped off, like
a secret planet, to
somewhere unseen, unknown,
untouchable. At night,
he was the ghost of himself.
Now that I have 20 years more
life under my belt, I am
clearer about why it was he fled:
so he could avoid all awkward
positions, and always remain
cooler than words. If gone,
how could he go wrong?

(2008)