Poetry: fin de ses jours à grand est (for Anthony Bourdain) by Scott Laudati

The moon fled early
and left us dirt-stained
and hungry
halfway between Saint Marks
and the sushi bar
we drank cold saki in
for your birthday.
Where Duke got run over
by an off-duty taxi
and Laura came late
and found him inside out.
It was a perfect ending.
To die for nothing.
And in the final quiet
someone said,
“Even flowers grow in the fields
of Bastogne.”
And I never forgot that.
The beautiful order.
And it made sense
until I watched Anthony Bourdain die
on a tv hanging above
a cold cuts counter
in Alphabet City.

We shared my grilled cheese
on the walk home
and laughed about
the worst endings we could imagine.
But his still beat them all.
It held a truth
we couldn’t speak.
And the sun didn’t clean us again
but we didn’t complain that time
we’d lost all hope,
and we knew then
that Strasbourg
wasn’t a fairy tale,
and it was never built to save us.

Scott Laudati is the author PLAY THE DEVIL (Bone Machine, Inc.). Visit him anywhere @ScottLaudati.

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