uddling poets inside dark perfect sunday fall warm

day outside beauty we gather inside lester late the late

lester in the middle a poem that doesn't quite start

is scratched out xxxs doesn't quite end what you

thought what you taught what you suspired

stood for your ground some soaring rarely -- cynic

died of poverty died of overdose of love died

of loneliness camaraderie red wine too

too much poetry not enough vegetables

always thought lester one of the smartest guys

I know always loved between him and ferris

cannon the crew something about us snapped

into place into focus even high today he'd be

here wouldn't be anywhere else cept dying young

afflick a fleck ash afflicted with life in the middle

xxxxs to get it write it keeps it going for you lester

for all of us here huddling poets inside dark perfect

 

Bob Holman