Willy
Joe Cordaro

Today’s mail brought
your memorial announcement
from Rosey.

Hadn’t seen you for six months
since you returned
to junk, bottles
and dopefiend ways.

You called the day
before you died
I was out.
Left you a message.

Recent photograph
on cover
still a clothes horse,
your hair long again,
as it was
seven years ago,
we battling booze
with hands dripping
water from
discarded baptisteries,
talking in the thick
blue television light
about how life was better
without hangovers
and the women


I hold in my hands
the image you liked;
handsome, urbane,
rings on fingers.





I picture Rosey
paying her respects
to your corpse
early that morning;
on bathroom floor
splatted with blood,
falling after jacking up,
Face against sink,
shattering nose
on your face.
Willy you were all Face.