Let Me Tell You About My Friend, David
He was the nicest guy, talked to anyone,
traveled by train, mostly, because he
liked the sound of the cars rattling
together. Most people grow petty,
but not David. No, he kept us in line –
made us see the good in the people
we gossiped about. Carved us
little wooden boxes and let us hammer open
geodes for Christmas presents, scratch off
Lotto tickets. Loved baseball and maps, shopping
thrift stores, seafood subs. He’d mix
7UP with white zinfandel, and he made
the best cobbler, any kind of fruit. To him,
every lady was pretty. In his living room
he set up a model train track instead of a sofa.
He was kind of a hippie, made a peace sign
out of rocks in his front yard, cultivated
fruit trees, and drove a mint green Prius,
had a skinny gray pony tail, painted.
He was born in January and
died on the last day of the year,
really getting his money’s worth.
Used up the time and left. No partial taxes.
That was David. About this pandemic
he would have said something like – well, actually,
I wonder what he would have said.
I can see his face, and hear his voice, but
I can’t make out the words.
© Katie Kalisz
Katie Kalisz is a Professor in the English Department at Grand Rapids Community College, where she teaches composition and creative writing. Quiet Woman, her first book, was a finalist for the 2018 Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award. She is the recipient of a 2023 Elizabeth George Foundation Grant, and her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She lives in Michigan with her husband and their three children.
The Loch Raven Review 