by Baloney Bill
A tribute to a departed friend, and the gathering later to celebrate and mourn his memory.
Remembering the Greek
Our friend laid to rest.
The two of us remain and wonder why,
can think of nothing better to do
than drink a toast to his memory.
Hours pass slowly as we gradually enter
the crypt of black licorice,
ducking under stalactites of anise,
the only sound is the steady trickle of ouzo –
drip, drop, drop –
as it gathers in small, proper glasses.
Glasses tossed back in steady succession
until the stuff oozes forth all around us,
dripping hollowly from the cavern walls,
heavy, gelid drops on our bare heads.
Glasses overflowing now,
the liquor running freely in channels.
Cutting channels deep. Deep.
Within and without, a current is building.
We plunged along in darkness, carried on
that current – sloshing about, feeling only –
flavor thick as paint on our tongues.