— Jerry Dyer
So private was his passing,
the crematorium failed to issue smoke.
An empty seat has appeared
on the 4:30 light rail, and
the downtown sidewalks warm
to the tune of one less shadow.
Fewer Braeburns disappear
from the pyramid
in the Zanotto’s bin.
On Friday nights, the tap
of the Old Speckled Hen
at Café Trieste feels two fewer tugs
toward the barkeep’s heart.
In his apartment, the bookmarks
root in place. Moonlight glides
over the spines of orphaned poets,
and all their verbs are withering into nouns.