By George Franklin

My mother used to say that only old people read them.
Now, I get an email about a classmate from high school,
Someone I might not have recognized over fifty years ago,
Much less today. I could call my friend Richard to ask,
Who was the guy who just died? And, Richard could tell me.
But the truth is that I don’t want to keep track of acquaintances
Beneath the ground—or above it. The cemetery in Shreveport
Was just down the block from a drive-thru liquor store that
Didn’t ask for IDs. The ability to turn the steering wheel and
Press the gas pedal was apparently good enough. On the same
Street, a fried chicken place sold onions pickled in jalapeños
And vinegar. They went down well with Jack Daniel’s
On summer weekends when we’d play penny-ante poker
In someone’s garage. Back then, almost none of us were dying.

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George Franklin’s most recent poetry collections are Remote Cities (Sheila- Na-Gig Editions) and a collaboration with Colombian poet Ximena Gómez, Conversaciones sobre agua / Conversations About Water (Katakana Editores). He practices law in Miami, teaches poetry workshops in Florida prisons, and co-translated Ximena Gómez’s Último día / Last Day. In 2023, he was the winner of the W.B. Yeats Poetry Prize. His website: https://gsfranklin.com.