he looks out reservedly through the
cool pool of the black and white photograph
with a pen in hand and a desk underneath
supporting him and a lace doily too
he's younger than me
and he knows in his snappy paper collar
that his chosen life and friends are going to kill him
and it is only a matter of time
but the parties and the laughing
on the way might make it worth it like
paris and new york might
or even hollywood
i have a novel of his here
full of wistful promise hope and then
the pages run out and the characters he wrote
stand like statues in the mind
he made persons eternally bright
and tense while true life slopes
dims and tends to forget photographs
and how it all started
.
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