live on

my favorite poets

are dead.

my writers too.

six friends i've known

forever

are gone.

and what does it mean?

nothing but a maudlin

thought

as the rain begins, again.

i can still 

read them,

i can still remember

their faces,

their voices.

the way they loved

their life,

and you. live on, live on.

there's little

else to do.