James Kent - Civilian

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

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