Ed died and we gather bowls of guacamole at his home.
I see his tools, his workshop, his engine parts,
his pint glasses stuffed with pens and markers
and his daughter jerked from her own monotony
to decide on all these things.
Ed had just taken a shower, was in a towel on his bed,
glasses in his hand, not a drop of liquor in his system,
a bead of blood left a wobbly line beneath his nose.
He’d been cleaning up for a party he’d never get to
as if the liquor had been saving him...
only a user would say that.
I use as many chips as I can, we all do,
still the guacamole greys and blackens
faster than we can finish.
Ed by Tim Staley | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
Tim Staley grew up in Montgomery, Alabama. He is the author of several unscented poetry collections, including Lost On My Own Street (Pski’s Porch Publishing, 2015), The Most Honest Syllable is Shhh (NightBallet Press, 2016), and The Pieces You Have Left (Beatlick Press, 2021). Since 2008, he's been Poet-in-Residence at Organ Mountain School for the Arts in Las Cruces, New Mexico.
