Graduation

When you showed up drunk as hell, humming

tunelessly to yourself, and slumped against

the auditorium's faux-wood paneling  — when

you fumbled in the pockets of your coat,

fished out a cigarette, brought it to your lips,

then, realizing for the first time where you were,

tossed it away and said Fuck it loud enough

that everyone turned in their seats and a friend

elbowed me and asked if I knew you — I shook

my head and spent the next hour wondering why

I was so glad you came. You, who slept

each night in your battered van, who skipped

meetings and lied to your sponsor, who still

called your ex-wife every day, restraining order

be damned. You shouldn't have been there

either: a hundred yards was the agreement

after you gathered all the meds in the house

into a shoebox and threatened to take them.

You had come regardless. You were there.

And I was there. And when I walked the stage

you hollered my name with a kind

of wild conviction, then said it a second time,

less convinced, and I thought of that night

when the cops came and you, unashamed

of the fuss you caused, of your desperate,

public struggle for happiness, kissed me

on the head — once, twice — and went quietly.