Apparently, David

by Michael Lee Johnson

There are categories of hell here.
Apparently
David died of
chronic liver disease
February 28, 2012.

Fact, I was a newspaper reporter.
I am a chronic drunk.

David’s drinking became his sin.
Sin is the crack of the Devil's butt.
It tossed a good man into hell.
Dandelions faded with him when
the burning began.

His widow was a chronic bitch.
Locals called her "Nightmare Boogie."

His wife of 14 years
celebrated his passing;
she pissed on his pictures.

She was simple a mindless fragment.

Her life was understated, full of fragments.

She got drunk on the night David died.
She thought it was butterscotch wine.
Confused, Cherry Lee, kept it simple;
she recognized the mix up,
it was butterscotch schnapps.

Either way, Cherry Lee helped
evaporate David's heart.

There were no memorial services.

David's ashes are still in a fruit box;
mounted on the top of her toilet bowl.

No urn, present or past tense.
No obituary, too late.

Only a label, a tag on the cinerary stating:
"this is David's discount Funeral Home."

There are no survivors here.