Departures

For Mark “Jocko” Anderson

There are worse tragedies than dying young.

Of the hundreds who huddled at his funeral

In Placerville 14 years ago, I want not one of them.

I was already close to 40 when he, five years younger

Than me, died while riding his bike, a reckless

Act for him, since we all knew his heart was not

Fit for that kind of stress.  His heart had a limited

Warranty, like the Willie Mays baseball glove

That he wore out pitching in our softball games.

He pitched because he could not exert himself,

So like Charlie Brown, he sighed contentedly

Discontent.  Still he crammed as much life into

His years as anyone I ever knew.  I did not attend

His service because I recalled the last time I saw him;

The last time I checked out of the dormitory.

He was the resident adviser but he let me be the last

To leave in that spring of 1973, telling me only to be sure

All the doors were locked. He knew I wanted to say

Good-bye to each of my friends as they left in that last

Week of spring. I got to help Dan Taylor put his bike

On his car, met George Coker’s father for the first time,

And even got a quick kiss from Karen before she ducked

Out of my life; before I locked that empty mausoleum;

Before I ever thought there would be an epitaph to our time.