I'd been out the night before & hadn't seen the papers or the telly
& the next day in a café someone told me you were dead
And it was as if a favourite distant uncle had died
old hands in the big strange room/new shiny presents at Christmas
and I didn't know what to feel.
For years I measured out my life with your coffee spoons
Your poems on the table in dusty bed sitters
Playing an L.P. of you reading on wet interrupted January afternoons