Miles Poem by Glen Kappy

Miles was one of us—but not.
He wanted to be—but his buzz-cut head (no barber required)
plain white tee shirts (his usual apparel)
and husky body put him at our fringe—
as did his ultra white skin that only freckled and went red
when we hung out at the beach—
and the chipped front tooth that would remain unfixed.

Not that the rest of our "gang" was well-to-do—
no—almost all of us from working class families.
But of family for Miles there was only his mother—
a mother we never met and a father never mentioned.

Another hang out was the nearby pool hall.
There Miles displayed a talent none of us could match.
He was at home beneath the low-hung lights
and moved with notable grace around the green-felt tables
as he lined his shots, chalked the cue, then stroked the stick
with nail-bitten and pudgy fingers.

And Miles had a talent for spotting insecurities—
which he'd then mock out in the open—
and another his ability to chug down beer—
champ at this he then went on—forerunner among us—
to smoking pot, sniffing glue, popping downers
and, as I learned later, spiking himself with heroin.

Not till now—with many years for the resentment to fade—
not till now do I come to wonder at his need for escape—
the reasons that led him—ultimately—to die by OD.