"How’s it goin’ señor?"
those words indelible
in my memory of the man
that I am now forced
to say goodbye to.
It is not fair that I shall
never again critique a new poem,
that I will not see him
in another Tuba Christmas
or across the battlefield
of a hardy RISK! game.
I want the chance again
to discuss work
or life in general,
R Crumb,
or jazz,
but I am denied.
His wit and insights
are gone from me forever —
and sadness fills the void.