For Tim

I let the book of
Poetry by Hardy
Rest in my lap, my finger
Wedged in the crook of the first poem's page,
And I can't go on.

Their love is over,
The two on that page
By the autumn's dying tree
Dead smile playing on her lips
Dead like an animal run over
In the road.

Their love is over,
And so is ours; funny thing
I had thought it already was
But had forgotten the ghost
Of what is called friend
Or what is taken for granted
Late nights, feverish from hospital stay
You took me home to get well,
Slept on the sofa
And I knew I could count on you -

No more.

The notes of our tune are fading out
The last stanzas of a song played too long
Yet one that was played well
Can you still hear the echo
Strains of some old jazz score
Like the one you sang a capella
In the bar where we met that night
Or like the Burning Star
Sung to me under stars
On a damp campus field
At the end of summer days.

I wish you well; you can sing those for her now.

Funny how you don't realize how much
You miss a friend until you know
That you cannot really call them friend
Anymore.