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.
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.