To Jim, on his birthday, November 14, 2004

Funny how my memory skips
while looking over manuscripts
of unpublished rhyme,
drinking my vodka and lime...

We’ve seen them all, you and I,
seen the fancy passing
of hundreds of pretenders,
watched them preen and primp
and pose as poets we hoped
they’d hoped they’d be;
we’ve seen them follow false
prophets, cheap at half the price,
pressing passion into lines
or lies or liens or loss,
and in short, we were afraid.

And among the hundreds, handfuls
of hepcats howled, we heard, we’d
heard the rumors. So we chased these demons
as far as we could. And we swapped
notes like gone horns across
a wilderness of missed chances
nobody hardly recognizes. Not like

us. Oh no, not like us. If three
people in the world ever knew us
we’d count ourselves lucky. If
we get another chance to walk
together in a night, a day, or
somewhere else, we’ll
call ourselves blessed. My

heart is of your heart. You
can count the poets in the world
on two hands’ fingers, but
it doesn’t matter. There’s a
New York City phonebook of
pretenders in the world, but
it doesn’t matter. There’s one

blue note blown from a gone horn
I hear everywhere, like you.
And we’ll see that hepcat gleam
and glow and grin unrecognized
grim, and in short, we’ll smile.

By Dr. Christopher P. Nagel, PhD

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