About this poem:

December 14th, Wednesday, 2016, I found my roommate dead on the living
room couch. He was my buddy. He took a morphine
overdose. His name is Steve Smith. He was in a bad
motorcycle accident some years back which messed
him up badly. He showed up at our place with nothing
more than a trash bag full of clothes and a cell phone.
I never keep my bedroom door locked so these guys
down on their luck would be forever knocking on my
door. I'm a magnet for the down trodden, and I'd make
Steve coffee every morning as we watched the morning
news. He snored loudly every night usually waking me
up. He was snoring like that at 11:00 Tuesday night.
Next morning I came downstairs and another roommate
had already called 911. I asked, "What's going on?" "He's
dead replied my roommate."