You should be here
Not because I am some kind of lonely
And I particularly miss
your queer brand of truck-stop killer humor

or your searching,
godforsaken-green eyes
that seem to drink up all the insecurities
out of my throat

or that designer blend of
new car fumes and old blue denim
that wears on your skin
better than any cologne ever could

But because having breakfast
every other Tuesday morning
in this hole of a diner was your idea
And I only ordered these couple

of overcooked egg whites
burnt bacon and dead-on-arrival toast
because I thought you would be here
But you’re not here

And that black bile posing as coffee
sitting in the middle of our table
is growing older
than the text I sent you hours ago

And the waitress with the “Becky” hairdo
is serving me right now
a dish of vicious side-eye because
I’m holding up a table for two

I should tell her you are dead
therefore you will not be joining us
And where you are
there are no hole-in-the-wall diners

No do-overs or overdone eggs
no me, no us, no kids and a fence
Just six lifetimes of dirt
and all the moonlight you could want

I should tell her
you’re being buried at this very moment
in a tie too green for your taste
And a vest too small for your ego

I almost went to your funeral
Just to see how you look with
a smile that bares no teeth
and a haircut that costs more than $5

I almost went
just to give you hell for skipping out
on today’s bill for breakfast
But instead I came here to honor you