Raising Hell in Heaven

He was a cagey old codger, nipping and sipping from his flask. 
Not enough to knock him off kilter, but just enough to keep an even keel.
 
I’d pass him on the avenue of an afternoon and ask after his aunt.
She was a wiry wily woman with her own well worn watering holes.
 
‘Ah, she’s right as rain,’ he’d sing,
‘First rate. Feelin’ fine and fiery!’
 
One day, as we intersected, I inquired as always.
‘Well, we had to wave her off,’ he winked. 
 
‘Seems the bottle got the better of her. Now she’s boozing above.’
‘Raisin' hell in heaven,’ he hiccupped and flicked his flask.
 
Months later, I acknowledged his own absence as absolute,
And I wondered when (but not why or where) he’d gone.