He fell like hell did through the ground

and held to the arms of a weary ghost.

On his 37th birthday, Gerry received a walking stick. He lived in a high-rise flat

and had sudden fencing duels with the stairs.
His heart grew light then ceased to pound.

He kept warm by the flames of memory.

When his phone rang, Gerry rarely answered it. We nicknamed him ‘possum.’

He liked to sleep during the day upon a curtained balcony.
His mouth felt dry and sore to sound.

His skin was desert red and yellow.

Once, I found Gerry cheering with some winos on Brunswick Street.

He had shared with them all his barbiturates.

Together, they ran and hobbled so high with Gerry for one night

almost the leader.
He searched for love in the lost and found.

His smile rose like bubbles from champagne.

Gerry had a reputation inside big department stores. He could carry

his bulk quite well: two leather jackets, three shirts. He left a trail

of discarded store-tags but was never arrested.  Instead, the many

security guards became attached to him.
If Rosalind Russell were not re-wound

then he would weep like Isabella Rossellini. In the shade

of a venetian-blind, Gerry sat with a remote control and replayed

his few favourite movies. He liked to sip from a nutrition supplement

and just listen, “I’m ready for my close up, Mr. De Mille.”
Twice I visited his burial mound.

He still listens to me like a friend.

Hey, Gerry, in peer-support-group last week,

we were asked to describe what grief is like.

I said that there became too many funerals to cry at each anymore.

I seem to accrue grief like a year’s worth of newspapers,

which I rarely think about and keep till they clutter my hall.

It’s lonely being alive at times. What’s that you’re saying to me?

My silly newspapers analogy? Yes?

Cut and save favourite clippings from each and recycle what remains.



This poem recollects 1995, the last year prior to the availability of effective HIV antiretroviral treatments.