Dear Chuck and Sara,
I am so sorry I lost you today.
I know I left you there –
a good 10 feet under.
I watched them lower your wooden boats
in the ground at Greenwood Cemetery.
First you, Chuck, then six years later, Sara,
stacked on top of each other like bunk beds –
tiny little spaces
like the ones you loved on cruises.
I searched for two hours,
but couldn’t find your headstone.
They said, after Hurricane Katrina,
several coffins popped out of their docks,
in the Gulf that came to fetch them.
I wish this for you –
for the Trinity River to rise up on watery legs
and dig you out, doggy style,
your beds bouncing
like the Caribbean storm
that day at sea
when you stayed in bed
with a pitcher of orange juice,
two-liters of Sprite, and a gallon of vodka;
the 18-foot waves surging about.
Not a bad way to go, you’d said,
happy, naked and drunk.