The Counselor Retires, and Then He Dies

Getting each other’s jokes,
each other’s absences; my first wise
practice at intimacy; and now the hero
shrugs on his London raincoat and walks away,
down the shiny street: it’s a death, Doc.

No more of
you in your pale green office, your bright green pants,
your lounging, affectionate smile, you
cradling your dog when he had a cold,
the way you would cradle me, if I was a dog,
or a baby, the way God cradles us,
only we can’t feel it . . .

Shea,
guard me and keep me,
as I keep you;
let me go, and I
let you go: a white balloon magic-markered Shea
floating up the white sky.

Door in the Mountain: New & Collected Poems