The last I saw of him was on the final neurasthenic afternoon of his harmonica
When he lost his hair and said I did this to him with my grief,
As the pink halo of a monk’s scalp began to shine up through his own.
My grief can cause male-pattern baldness in a man!
This was his voyage, remember now, not mine.
In my own life’s journey, I once found him, many laters, bewitched
Into a tiny iron matador (he wore a hat) on the folding table at a yard sale
In a small New England town, holding out
His midge of scarf—ridiculous and red,
Now overwrought with aching from the wind in Spain.
When was it that you say I knew?