for Luke

I‘ve watched my computer die every day
for four hundred and thirty five days.

Its little red light batters on and out;
its cautionary smoke babbles over live docs.

Sometimes I hesitate, but I know I let this take,
choosing to ignore—to let it burn itself ash-blank.

This is how Bobby and I stopped hanging out
with Luke after we taught him to smolder, to blaze.
 
This is how we didn’t pick-up or return calls
after we admired his avant-garde auto-theft.

This is how he last looked us in the eyes—
precious red flickering within—and told us

five times he’d be dead before twenty-one.
We just sat there.