911

Our scene held a man
whose nickname was
“911.”

He strutted pills
like pinky rings,
lived by the motto
“open mouth
insert internal decor,”
washed resulting suds away
with a cocktail,
suffered or enjoyed
impossible comas weekly.

Perhaps or perhaps not unexpectedly

911
emergency married
a big winner,
local starfire,
bump in the path of the scene libido

who said
in response to our frightened questions
something about wanting
to keep the chaos
alive as long as possible
before REALLY settling down.

The happy couple
took turns burning up and freezing
in our once climate controlled social gatherings
for a few cough-splinted years
before 911 finally
rooted up the wrong truffle and
dusted on out of here.

His partner?

We see the partner, not so much
a desirable sight now,
quite often in the supermarket,

proclaiming
that after the shock wore off
it was like high school
had finally ended
without a graduation  — and

tossing a cap in the air
he says:

“I’m still waiting.”