Half drunk, all of us,
inside that nameless bar in
Houlton, Maine,
you took us home with you
two strangers at two a.m.,
and sat at your grand piano,
eyes burning, and played
until almost dawn,
Barney, the Farmingham
truck driver, and I
your spellbound audience.
I remember Autumn Leaves
flowing like a sacrament
from your fingertips
and then you told us
you were thirty-eight and had
two more years to live.
And all that now remains
is a memory of
snow on a window ledge
and this withered
yellow page.
© 1971-2009
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