Sit Down, Friend

Sit down, friend

And drink this.

This one’s for Jimmy.

For his voice, and passion –

The way he leaned into a song,

Rode the microphone

And this is for Tom.

Yeah, he liked a drink.

Or did. He joked to Letterman

That it got in the way –

Of jogging.

Imagine that:

Tom in his pork pie hat tipped back to show his coolness,

Jogging, stopping in the blinking neon to fold a hand around a light.

Sucking in, looking up to nowhere, the way singers do.

Have a whiskey.

Feel it dance in your throat,

All the way down.

Knew a bloke who ordered them by the threes:

Irish as Irish.

Even wore a green shirt and had red hair.

Spoke a bit posh.

You know: Bushmills, squire, if I may –

Here, have one for Hank.

God, he was only 29.

So, you, sing me a song.

Sing me a night song.

A piano song.

Make the notes waver,

Make them sinewy

If I cry, it’s your fault.

On this, of all nights

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