Back in the day
he was a world class forger,
before the feds got him
and he got sick.

When we first met, though,
it was years later
and he just looked scared,
wearing orange
and sitting in the cheap plastic chair.

We got him out of jail
and back on the meds,
but after all those years
of pretending he was fine,
it was too late.

So when he showed up again this week,
slumped there in the wheelchair
with the nurse dabbing the sores
and the puke from his shirt,
you could tell
he wasn't long for this world.

Later that night,
while I sat
in the zendo
on my cushion
in the candle dark,

he kept coming back,

along with James,
and Larry,

and all the other dead and dying.

It was as if
they sat there with me,
backs straight,
hands just so.

Later
I drove home
on wet glass streets
of red and green,
and felt real small
and unimportant.