The last I saw of him was on the final neurasthenic afternoon of his harmonica When he lost his hair and said I did this to him with my grief,
As he pink halo of a monk's scalp began to shine up through this own. My grief can cause male pattern baldness in a man!
This was his voyage, remember now, not mine.
In my own life's journey, I once found him, many laters, bewitched
Into a tiny matador (he wore a hat) on the folding table at a yard sale In a small New England town, holding out
his midge of a scarf-ridiculous and red,
Now overwrought with aching from the wind in Spain, When was it that you say I loved?