The Mystery of Evil

You surprised no one by dying of an overdose.
Was it glue or oven cleaner?
I can no longer recall, but I know
you enjoyed them both to the full.
Your time on earth was brief, though not brief enough
to keep you from torturing a cat to death
with leftover fireworks and a refrigerator box.
Why is sharing the pain always easier than sharing the joy?
Or perhaps you had no joy to share
other than the joy of glue and oven cleaner and torture.
At a certain point all arguments become circular.
The best thing about you was your gay uncle
who would recite Tennessee Williams
to a roomful of teenagers who thought he was making it up.
He referred to the home where he grew up as a living hell,
and I’m sure it was no different for you,
yet somehow you didn’t emerge from it
tenderly quoting Tennessee Williams, and he did.
All these years later I still ponder it,
the mystery of evil, as I light the memory
of a roman candle and toss it in with you
in the refrigerator box of my mind.