There’s a memorial bench
with your name on it
in a park teeming with roses.
If I found it and sat there
I’d probably work myself
into a dry drunk by recalling
our long lunches together
and the stacks of poems
you inspired me to write
and then patiently read.
I was as hooked on you
as Emily Dickinson was
on Reverend Wadsworth,
also a married man
who could do no more
than bless the way
she subdued her demons
with the opium of verse.
For nearly a decade, our spirits
loved each other as much
as roses love the sun.
Although we never decided
we had to cool our friendship,
the lovely petals came down
after some thorns of life,
mostly my own fault,
began to hurt like hell.
