poet and friend who died yesterday in his chair at home.
Ken - call me when you get there.
Call me collect, if needs be.
Just want to hear how things are -
and, basically, where and when things are
without time and space.
Not much imagery to inspire you and
your metronome is silent by your guitar.
No time for poetry there, I guess.
Well, one good thing: you didn't splutter
into silence like a candle with a burnt-out wick.
May I wish for you as I always have
printer's ink for your crafted words.