Graying skin retouched,
colored over, like the wedding photos,
1963.
Like the Westerns he watched
every day of the week.
Recolored dusty horizons,
heavy golden powder
on his cheeks.
Dressed in that same button down
I’d seen on him a thousand times over—
something Wyatt Earp might wear
on his day off.
Should’ve buried him in his recliner,
the way his hands crossed over
his chest so peacefully,
and his eyes looked like he’d just
nodded off
in the middle of a late-night special.
His gun case remains locked up
at home, unable to assist
in the afterlife.
He went so simply, in his sleep.
Didn’t even flinch when
the Lord called him home.
It was me who wasn’t ready
when the casket began to close
and they buried his Technicolor face.
