DANNY, AGAIN
Larry died. He'd been going to the center
for mentally disabled adults where I work
for almost ten years. He was a decent man
of sixty, always thirsty from the meds
he had to take, willing to steal any drink
left alone for even a single moment, but
in all, a kind, non-verbal gentleman, never
really bothering anyone. All day Larry
walked back and forth through our rooms,
anxious, smiling, sitting now and then,
but never social with his peers. We went
as a group to the funeral, escorted a few
clients, said goodbye in our way, not
knowing any of Larry's elderly relatives.
Days later, Danny, one of our most
talkative guys, needy as hell, full of life,
always grabbing for attention, wanting
an audience, was by himself in the small
front room, seated on the ratty couch
in there, clueless that I'd come up,
that I was standing outside the door.
With some bit of formality, he cleared
his throat, tuned his always present phone
to the song Amazing Grace, announced,
This is for you Larry, then, in his horribly
off-key voice, sang along full throttled,
stating afterward, We love you Larry,
we miss you, months later still the only
person to mention Larry Taylor's name,
the single voice remembering, since they
put that quiet, lonely soul in the ground.
