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.
