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Civilian
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James Kent
James Kent, son of a bitch
You were my best friend
When you set your head down on the train tracks
Said “This is it” and closed your eyes
My crushed soul, me and Bobby Boyd
Were in the funeral home
Sorting through the memory of a homeless man
That moved into our home and made us whole
The reverend then turned to the crowd
And asked if someone would share
But nobody had a response, you see, because nobody cares
I find it odd that in death they comfort all your brothers
When they couldn't care less
Except the awful inconvenience of them splitting the check
Because there's no panhandle pension
He got what he gets and they get off the hook
I hope they sleep some night
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James Kent, hell of a man
You had some substance
You had some depth
You gave us life again so we gave you somewhere to live
Your whole name is printed in matte
I read, my hands shake
Beneath you a dash between the two dates
That led me to stand where I am
The man in the morgue had done such a beautiful job
Sewing you up and crossing your arms
I find it odd that in death
They circle you with flowers and they tuck you in bed
Where they tell you that they loved you
But for twenty-five years you slept beneath a bridge
Where you were dying of AIDS and smoking a crack pipe
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