R.I.P. Scott Peterkin

My old not quite friend Scott Peterkin died yesterday. He was my first boss at Cornucopia Gourmet Delicatessan in Cashiers, NC and he taught me how to slice cheese. His parents were close friends of my parents and I always, at the back of my mind, figured I would eventually marry him someday, so his death is a shock. I really didn't know him well, and hadn't seen him in years, but I am sad that he's gone, damn, and I wish I had seen more of him.

We used to party together once in a great while when we were in the same town at the same time, and once I did coke with him in Cashiers and he tried mightily to seduce me, but I refused to get into his hot tub. Meanwhile the wolves he was raising at the time howled in the backyard; the whole thing was a bit too fraught. Still, I've always regretted not sleeping with him that night, so hearing of his death made me think of all the guys I've kind of regretted not sleeping with at one time or another and I thought about finding them all and launching a kind of no regrets sex odyssey tour of the US, but I doubt it will work out. Logistics are a bitch, you know.

So, when the cats woke me up at 7:00 with my weekly Saturday hangover, I wrote a poem for him. This is rare, and it's a serious poem too. Here it is:

We are mortal after all
and our bodies begin now
to betray us
vague secretions
and ominous knockings
The ranks thin.
The drugs don't taste as good
when the light curve
of danger is not a spice
or edge but all too real
and our losses accelerate.
We were never supposed to die
not us
the young ones.