You were dead an hour, and I still

went to the party.

And I admit, I enjoyed the music. Of course,

I was struggling

to be cheery, remember

those songs you half sung—were you fading

from me already?

I put my drink down and huddled

in the corner with my phone, looking up

Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Sarah Vaughan.

It must have looked

like I was texting—probably the hospital, checking

on you, which made more sense, I’m sure, than me

being there. Everyone knew

you were sick, but if I was there, then

you were alive at least. I told them

the truth—Not in any pain. So brave,

they whispered, I did the right thing coming, but

their faces said, of course he tells himself lies. I left humming

Frank’s “Summer Wind,” floaty

with champagne, drenched in glare

from the traffic, lights twinkling red, silvery, blurring

with the city noise: syncopating horns and sirens

and screeches—I can hear jazz sax

and needle scratches—your old phonograph. I’m drunk.

And scared. I’m going to tell

someone. I’m going to tell that woman in the colorful coat

and heels, waiting at the crosswalk.

Appeared in The Southern Review