If you saw the black and white photograph
You might think it could be Ernest Hemingway
Standing there being posed holding the big fish
Bundled in a parka against the cold snow and ice.
Twelve years since my friend David died
Three years since that photo appeared
Beside a remembrance another friend wrote
Published in the 50th reunion compendium.
As a dear friend Rosie once explained
Not long before she died this year
The dead exist in a kind of lingering afterlife
In the memories of those who knew them.
The David I remember would surely laugh
Seeing that photo of himself like the way he laughed
Reading aloud Brautigan’s Trout Fishing In America
Mocking the manly Hemingway having sex with a fish.
For me the words of praise for David filling that page
Beside the bemused expression I see in the photo
Left out the essence of the person I loved to be with
The one I knew not yet forgotten to me
The one with the melodious good natured chuckle
The one who dared to speak from the heart
The one who had no truck with pretense
The one who stayed true to his roots in Flint.
The one who gave me encouragement for my writing
The one who introduced me to Black jazz musicians
The one who opened my world up to new possibilities
Though I never quite understood his meaning
As he read his poem almost shouting the final words
"If the shoe fits, WALK!"
Until many years later more subdued
Having lived through his losses and disappointment
The divorce late in life of his parents
The suicide of his mother afterwards
The disillusionment with his older brother
The friend who failed him in his time of need.
All that weighed on him in such a human way
As he took a sober inventory of his life
Never wavering from trying to do the right thing
Being a good and generous person
Running a small bookstore with his adored Liz
Putting out boxes of free books for the community
Forever enjoying reciting his favorite Jack Spicer
"The sounding brass of my heart says 'love'."
