golden painted stars littered the bar ceiling,
a feeling of old England like the time
my Opa and me creeped the streets
and railways through Soho and Edinburgh
sipping drinks like the one I sip now
on this night,
the death night
of an unknown friend,
I sip in his honor, for I wish I knew his brain
rather than his face— though it was a handsome face.
he taught me to read
to roam the road,
to keep roaring through the night,
to scream ‘yas!’ with all my right might.
I keep his writing, his spontaneous, delicate work
in my brown coat pockets and in my suitcase.
my torn, worn, ragged shoes like his in chapter four
hang on my knee where I write,
as he writes in delight
on his forty first
party in enlightenment.
R.I.P Jean Louis
Written in Ashland, OR 2010