i went to see Jake
in the hospital,
two weeks before he died
of lung
cancer,
he told me he'd be out soon
and back to work.
pick me up at seven eleven,
same time
as usual, he said.
his head was
wrapped in
a wide white
bandage
where they had to cut
into his brain
to remove
some cells gone south.
he looked like a
Confederate
soldier
at Gettysburg who had
been through hell,
but he was in good spirits.
he asked
me to bring him a pack
of cigarettes
and a pint of Jack Daniels
the next time
i came, and a Playboy
magazine.
i said okay.
but it was too late.
the bed was empty when
i returned on
Christmas Day.
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