he's not there

it's not the news
you seek, not the headline
or scores.
no weather is of interest.
it's the obituaries
you turn to. the thin
pages at the back
of the D section
where the black and white
photos stare out
into the living world.
it's here you find his name.
your friend.
a photo of his face, unsmiling,
his beard, his nose.
his pensive lips,
hardly him at all.
an etching of his life.
his children, his brothers,
his wife.
but what is there to say.
is there mention of how
he sang, or played
his guitar. the beret
set just so, tilted on
his head. is there mention of his
fiat that he was always
under with a wrench,
hands in grease,
or the way he took a shot,
smooth and silky
from the top of the key.
is there the nod
of laughter,
the gentle handshake,
the love he had for
any stray crossing any street.
there is no mention
of the music he loved,
of lennon or cat stevens,
the women he loved,
the way he went on for hours
on the phone,
the two of you beyond
sleep. none of that is there.
that you carry with you,
until it's your turn.