Sometimes, when he thought

too much time had passed with-

out a poem appearing, he would

call and ask, “Are you all right?”

I would chuckle, tell him I was

fine, thank him for his concern

and tell him a poem would

appear soon. It was a catalyst.

Then one day I got a call and

knew I would never get another

call of his concern for me. He

had died, tragically, violently in

a moment of utter, personal despair.

I haven’t written much since he

died and it occurred to me that

if it were any other time, I might

expect a phone call of his concern

for me, a call which he won’t be

making ever again, but just the

thought of his calling was enough

for me to write this.