He died at thirty-four
a year past messiah
but couldn't hold out for three days,
more three flatline seconds.
"I was dead."
He says it to spawn my horror,
my inability to grasp thirty-four's death,
his thirty-nine mischief.
He would have rolled the boulder from the cavedoor,
popped out to yell boo at Mary Magdalene.
"Brain dead? What do you mean 'was'?"
A pillow swaddles my shrieking glee;
he remembers to throw mine, at least,
not his shammed concrete
that once bonked me, laughing,
and took me to the floor.
I know. I know.
But you only get one try, and that was yours.