He took second place for June's IBPC, and I wanted to share that poem with those who might stop by here who aren't familiar with the IBPC:
Last Minute Chore
by Jim Fowler
We were embarrassed by what
you wanted to do. You made us
promise, strong hands now weak,
wringing the deed out of us.
We drank, laughed self-consciously
that summer afternoon, hot as the red
peppers you considered fertilizing,
your mad fit of immortality.
Instead, your ashes, sifted fine
to feel, were nervously placed
and stirred in two gallons of paint,
bone white that matched no chip.
You on the old shed. Two coats
cover the tears of our craziness.