Dirge For Jackie Walsh

Dead now, Jackie Walsh? Smolderingly blonde like a strawberry, protesting your stolen innocence; one snuffed candle. So much promise you had, the favored cousin, my own father loved you best. All gone in an instant, one busy street, and one turn of the spoke or hand at the wheel. You could have been a draft pick or a scholar or a hired gun. Go now to your brother Barry and father J.P., to cousin Jimmy Scanlon; they sit waiting for you in easy chairs, sipping poteen. Ghosts of Rawlings Avenue, let Aunt Madeline rest in peace. I did not name my own son after you or your father consciously. We drank the last can of Uncle Tommy’s Coors, all the way from Colorado. It’s safe to share that secret now after 34 years. Trading baseball cards by flashlight, remember, Jackie Walsh? Staying up all night, waiting our parents and uncles out. Their pot of Irish stew stirring and simmering, their loud whispers sharp but glimmering. Leaving them to point the finger at one another for all these years. Passing the collection plate at Italian mass, you knew the priest; we kept the silver dollars. I have not really seen you since then (not even in my dreams), except for a crazy subway ride and a bank robbery, inside job, of course. We all have a little larceny in our souls; all to the sizzle and whiff of crackling eggs and Irish bacon. I would ask where did you go, but I know it was that you stayed, that little boy waiting for big brother's return. Feeling jealousy and admiration for you at the same time, then later, after, feeling lament for you and eventually contempt. We could not fathom your loss because it was your own private property. Stung to the soul you sorrowed and raged. With tears on the keystrokes I offer this dirge too little, too late for you now, to purge my own soul. I missed you all these years, Jackie Walsh. Sleep well now for this dream is over.