By David Himmel

He showed up drunk.
The stumbling, the slurring, the hitting on the bartender in a perverted, nonsensical way aside
He looked good.
His hair had thinned.
His belly had grown.
But there was a New Wave Confidence appeal to him.

His wife left him with the kids a year ago.
She couldn’t stand him.
Or anything that had ever been a part of him.
A mother’s love stops at her hatred for her ex.
She left a letter.
“Goodbye.”
It was written on the back of a Target receipt
Taped to his forehead while he slept.

It was a surprise.
But he knows what he did.
He drank too much
Loved too little.
Nothing could calm the beast driving his soul
Shitting in his heart
Dry humping his mind.

We ordered a beer.
We threw darts.
He was falling over himself
But could hit a triple 20 on command

His sadness colored his eyes.
His desperation jaundiced his skin.
His words bounced between nihilism and self-help pamphlets found at self-help conventions at airport hotels.

I was glad I wasn’t him.
Glad my sadness was temporary.
It was good to see him.
A complete mess, sure, but still charming.
He was, as he’d always been
An inspiration.
But not an aspiration.
Inspiration to avoid his fate at all costs.