The day Gary Hinman died

I cross the dwindling creek, walk the hush
and peace and arid swerves to Gary’s for piano.
His faded Volkswagon ovens in the sun.
Ground squirrels chatter and stop.
I knock, and wait on his gray stairs. Listen.
To the small, peccant voices behind his front door.
Passing cars drown the drying sound of oak leaves
curling in the shade. Gary plays piano and bag pipes.
Teaches—taught—Shawn and Holly brass and flute.
Gary would have taught me to play, too, except
Charlie hacked Gary’s left ear, slashed his face
while something small as a front door stood
between my lesson and the two stab wounds
that stopped Gary’s heart, left the tinge
of feeble blood browning on living room walls.