Elegy for Rich.

Caine, Danny

Elegy for Rich

   He went down on East 9th walking
   towards the Factory of Sadness.
   He likely wore a Browns sweatshirt.

   Drunken tailgaters, I imagine, stopped
   in their wobbly tracks to ask if everything
   was okay. The cop directing traffic likely

   radioed for help. Surely somebody
   called an ambulance. Perhaps a crowd
   gathered. Someone could've said,

   "What is taking so long?" before being shushed.
   At least Rich died doing what he loved--hating
   the Browns. Maybe his last words were

   "Let the Browns win this one at least."
   I haven't talked to his son in years. How am I
   supposed to send that email? "Dear Mike,

   Your dad's last words had to have been
   about the Browns, right? Please say they were.
   I'm writing this poem to elegize him

   as a great guy but 1 also wanna hit a dark
   comic note about dying on the way to the
   Browns game. Any help would be appreciated

   and by the way how have things been
   the last five years?" Friendships fade
   but football scores are forever:

   had Rich made it to the stadium, he would
   have seen his Brownies go down 16-0,
   against the goddamn Ravens no less.