O’Brien died young,
An overdose of drugs
He was taking for a nervous disorder.
Who now will sit ablaze with indignation
At the iniquities of this world, verifiable or not?
I gaze at him
Lying on a Murphy bed
In a room you couldn’t swing a cat.
And if I wasn’t here, sat in this wooden chair,
Who would bear the grief, glance at the dead breath?
Some say he was a rogue.
His face carved by wind and rain,
No oil painting, more a storm at sea.
I’m in right heroic mood sitting here,
Waiting for the throng to come. How much longer?
He bowed to no man,
Broke many a chair across a fella’s back
When the mood took him. Brawny as cairn, tower,
And weathered stone on mountain crest. Does he miss
The Atlantic winds drenching the cabin, potatoes and goats?
On grass-covered lane,
Through rustic gate, past iron stove,
Up wooden stairs, the priest enters with half-closed eyes
Preceded by his nose and Adam’s apple. Why the stupid grin
And a face like a sunken mask on one closer to heaven than me?
It was no secret.
O’Brien’s father beat him with razor strop,
Bound and pounded daily by the skeleton dressed in black.
I look at the priest smugly praying about the resurrection and the loss,
Does he never think of leaving his ego in a different pair of pants?
Teresa Murphy and son
Arrive to pay their last respects.
The son, unshaven, speaks with the priest
While Teresa leans to caress O’Brien’s brow.
He fades from vision as I glance at his ruin! Am I going mad, or what?
O'Brien, a friend
Some will not recall
Until they read the obituary, and mourn without knowing why.
Brawny as cairn, tower, weathered stone on mountain crest. Does he miss
The Atlantic winds drenching the cabin, potatoes and goats?
Answer me that?
Ronnie Kerrigan
