| Written in the Month of the Poet |
April 6, 1996
Oh, Allen, Dear
Why are the sounds so still?
No howl or generation beat,
and you so far from us.
We had no way of knowing
when you were around.
Funny how just four days ago
I wrote you a song
that more than wrote itself.
It reminded me of a summer long ago
when we sang Father Death
into Todd Larsen's mikes
for PBS Frisco to air,
and you had roses named after you
on Arthur's and Kits' porch.
You told me how much you hated Hoover.
You were surprised I had worked for him.
You went to the Mon,
chanted for the valley from the water's edge,
voice clear and free of earth and bond,
more ethereal than a dharma shroud
real as Neal's ashes.
Now I know you are amongst the gods
and still you nurture me with a need of
the memories and of the glory in your voice
even as you were gone Saturday afternoon
and all the rest of us must stay.
Copyright 1999 Bob Cain