Junk’d up on adrenaline.
Nobody could tell you anything.
I was grateful enough to move
to your hometown, let alone
become your friend.
Isn’t that the Taylor kid? I heard the
Police searched his house for six hours.
Nobody was ready to see what your
home looked like though.
How you rescued
a dog from the neglect of its drug-
dealing owners.
Nonetheless you were from the wrong
side of the tracks, yet cut so different
from everyone else.
You split the community in half.
Modern day robin hood, only you could do that.
One end of the spectrum left in
grief of a young genuine life taken too soon.
Others commemorated the death
of a bandit.
Almost like they saw the end of an era,
understanding that your dirt bike was never
to be heard in Adamstown again.
You and that bike.
The loss didn’t hit me until it was too late.
I realized I didn’t hear that rust bucket of a machine
ripping down its iconic strip outside my window
anymore. Suddenly your crew made less and
less appearances throughout the town.
I never finished the cigarette you offered during our first encounter.
I only took it so you and your friends wouldn’t think I’m square.
At first, I thought it was cool, that
my peers recognized me as part of your legend.
It was a handful of times we even hung out.
I feel so stupid now! To think a legacy
could fill the void of a fallen soldier.
Now all I am left with is a memorial card, and
posts of your life depicted through Facebook.