Hero

That photograph…
It once read "hero" on the back-
My face did too, back in '95.
On your shoulders-
Eighty-five pounds, short brown hair,
Dark green eyes, sun burnt knees,
Fists raised high yelling
"Go, Go Nick…Touchdown!”

Palm sweating-
I hold on to the 'what ifs'.

Tired, on the couch
And that farmer's tan
Speaks volumes of your works.
You hold on tightly to your Bud,
Light, of course.

She’s on the other couch.
She’s been sleeping all day.
Dishes are dispersed among the kitchen,
Creating towers, collecting grime.
Dust dances and toys are in heaps.
Yet, you sit still.

But, you’ll go to your room,
Open the drawer,
Probably shove it a couple times.
Ah – the tile.
It's black, chipped on the one corner,
It feels so comfortable; an old friend.
You pour out the powder,
Line it up, sniff it up,
Lie down, and feel much better.
Much better.

You know, that photograph
It doesn’t read “hero” anymore.