Epistle
____________________________________

I promised to write, but as you know
you too have let the years go by.

I have heard of course—by the usual
communiqués—that you are dead.

Yet I ask, How dead is dead
if I can still see you changing

white tablecloths in the bistro crush?
I wondered if I could joke that day

you called, after I had left town—
but before you had passed on—that I

was still alive. You kept asking me,
How are you? How are you? O.K.,

it seemed to me. O.K. You listed
the stricken & therefore all of us

who were still alive. I did not ask
after anyone in particular.

We paused, interested in the other
life—but not enough. So you said

that the Eastern Shore had been cold,
but for a night at least a few drinks

at an amber board had kept you there.