I wrote this last week, thinking of Joe.

*Fishing for a Lifetime*
by DS Hendler

Dear Joe, teach me some little thing.
Show me that sleight of hand fling
that makes a smile carve through a lake
like a duck's ass leaving no trace
but endless echoing ripples on the souls
of your friends. Or no. No, let's not go
there because I want something concrete
like a perfect martini or how to read
a scotch label to find perfection
in a near liters without question.
Show me that, Joe. Show me that.

We whisper the name of your disease
in my family, as if the word would please
some devil carrying it around in a sack
flinging it at you, lightning the load on his back.
I know we're not even close friends—
just two guys who'd be talking by party's end
and when you invited me to your home
to your party, I thought I was no longer alone.
That a new life was about to open
up for me. That's what I was hoping.
I gave your wife my Men Without Hats disc
and I borrowed that Craig Thompson comic.
You put my name on your kitchen whiteboard
and what's written there now? The horde
of drugs you take for chemo? At Chris's wedding
you looked so fucking great, I thought it was ending,
that you had it beat. Just as you whipped
the failing liver duct with a shunt tipped
up at full attention. I mean, you looked *healthy*.
And we passed our pleasantries like time-wealthy
men. And then Jenn's email said it spread to your lymph
and now they're talking pain management.
So teach me some little thing, Joe.

See, I'm the best learner I know, even though I learn slowly
come on, my friend, teach this lowly
writer something good. Something I can use.
My son showed me, accidentally, how to choose
where the computer taskbar lives
and whenever I move it, I think of him.
Some days, I just bounce it around the screen
and we're back in time, laughing
in our wooden shack downtown. And you only use salt
to wash a cast iron pan. This was after Martha halt-
ed my scrubbing them with soap. Dennis taught
me that, and every time I fry or clean I'm caught
hanging out with him again. (We weren't great
friends, either.) And Russell is comics, and cakes
are Brandy, and my Dad is music and driving is Mark.
Maybe I'm selfish, Joe, but I take a small spark
from everyone who teaches me something that I need
and doing that thing makes memory flare up like a weed.

I thought it was my new life starting when you invited
me to your house that night. Martha and I were fighting
and you made me feel welcome. Everyone sang
when you played your piano and it rang
through our hearts like something old and asleep
waking up at midnight. It's a memory I keep
coming back to. But I can't do that; I can't make
people sing and smile like you do. So take
a little time and teach me something my limited hands
can do. And when I teach others, I'll speak of the man
who once taught it to me
when his body was ravaged by the capital C
and our little slight friendship we won't have to sever
and Joe, like that, you will live on forever.