I miss my dear friend Philip ...

I miss my dear friend Philip, who, older than me, 

died too many years ago – so close and confidential

a chum, many believed we were secret lovers. (No, 

but we told only each other about the ones who were.)

I could phone him after midnight, knowing he too 

would be awake alone at his desk, working on poetry

(just a few streets away, which was somehow warming). 

When I couldn’t choose between several good options

for one of my poems – as I can’t now (not this one) – he

could always put his finger right on it, and also tell me why.