He Wasn’t Scandinavian, But Let It Go

 

Calendar’s Viking Funeral—body on a gas-soaked pyre, 

 

aboard a vessel built for sinking.

 

Journey to whatever’s next via Lake Michigan.
 

 

The sole ex-girlfriend not still angry sang “Free Bird” god-awfully,

 

while that no-good Ridenour kid who’s in and out of prison

 

arced a flaming arrow toward the out-bound craft.

 


The arrow flew wide of our deceased guy,

 

as did the next. Seven others didn’t set the fire.

 

Disgraceful showmanship.

 


Before we swam out with cigarette lighters, Ridenour hit his tenth shot.

 

He bowed at the waist, as if he’d done something

 

besides go to jail and make parole, and own a compound bow.

 


Calendar died with no warning, cheated of good years, his flame

 

sinking past the waterline between Ludington and here.

 

Can’t say more, there’s state laws we ignored.

 

 

 

 

r h p   h o m e

 

 

T o d d   M e r c e r


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