Poem of the Day 11.06.08

poem for hayden carruth

a table full
of son of a bitches
are laughing
playing uno and hitting
on women in this library
as i find out
hayden carruth
is dead.
september 29th.
today is october 29th.
a month later.
why am i only
finding this out now?
poor hayden
we have slipped
from each other.
poor me
listening to these
goddamned punks
while i read a thirty-day
old obituary
and “saturday at
the border,”
trying to catch up
with your ghost
while trying to remember
what christmas it was
that my wife bought me
“scrambled eggs and whiskey.”
1997.
she was my girlfriend then
brand new
and hayden, you,
well christ,
you were seventy-six
years old
a withered, bearded sage
still going strong.
i wondered then if i’d ever
have it in me
to last like that
to keep the words flowing
in an endless stream
to keep fighting off time and age.
i wonder it now
eleven years later
as the punks get louder
and the days get colder
as more poets die
that i never had the pleasure
of knowing
as the aches get more pronounced
and i play the writer game
to do or die
or simply fade away.
but hayden
you gave me something golden
even though our time
together
was brief,
and as you lay there
looking up at god’s grave
i hope you feel
that this long ride
was worth your while
once and for all.