by Michael Derrick Hudson
How ironic it is I’m dying of pneumonia, he said, some years
after high school, back when he was dying
and I was still finding out about irony. I was bluff, dithering
Watson to his aquiline Holmes, both of us
harrumphing like a couple of madcap Monty Python colonels,
snifters of brandy and the fake glass eyes
of stuffed tigers, sloths, armadillos and wildebeests glittering
in the firelight. I’d puff on my cheroot (such a great word,
cheroot) and he’d moodily suck the stem
of his streaky old meerschaum. How ironic it is I’m dying Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 