Today I heard an old friend died,
grim news from folks I never knew.
"We found your name amidst Jim's stuff,
a Christmas card he'd hung on to.

"Was thought of highly here you know,
a combat vet of Vietnam,
so handy with most tools you'd name
and easy-going, always calm.

"A widower, Jim lived alone.
His wife . . . she died some years ago.
The kids, well, they're all grown and gone,
but all came back for fun'ral though.

"He's buried in a pretty spot
behind the church just down the road.
Nice service on a sunny day
near gravesite, lawn all freshly mowed."

My wife and I were newly-weds,
our first abode next-door to Jim's.
We met one Sunday when he screamed.
A ladder toppled, broken limbs.

I drove Jim to the hospital
and hours later by his bed
I cheered with him as dem Bears won,
his arms in casts above his head.

A decade older, less mature,
Jim could be reckless, loved to play.
Good buddies for a dozen years
until job lost he moved away.

One loses touch with good friends fast
when they're no longer living near,
when lives diverge and families grow.
The "distance" grew more every year.

Fair-weather friend I proved to be
to pal who likely died alone,
but part of me's deep-buried, too,
with his remains beneath that stone.