(in memory of Mike James)
I sit at the kitchen table, laptop open in front of me, waiting on inspiration. This coming Sunday you’ll be dead a week, and I might still be sitting here, waiting. My muse displays about as much kindness and compassion as the lunch ladies in a school cafeteria. But yours, yours was different. Merciful. Available. Generous. Maybe because you were the best of all of us desperate scribblers. You were a poet, a real one, like a soldier with a flower in his helmet. Then night came on, and the cold with it. The words you would have brought together, celebrated, they’re orphans.
Howie Good's newest poetry collection, Frowny Face, a mix of his prose poems and collages, is available from Redhawk Publications He co-edits the online journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.