Visiting Bone Cancer Frank

You know I have bone

cancer, he joked, gazing

out at Monterey Bay

from that little house

above Capitola. Then

he picked up a volume

from the gang of books

on the coffee table,

announcing: Jim Moore,

page 108, The Sounds

Of Traffic. I quickly

followed along in my

beat copy, as he read

aloud in a deep, reverential

voice. We’d spend most

of the day, as we had

the previous three,

doing just that: each

selecting a piece

from the many volumes,

a Carver or Transtromer,

etc., breaking only

for food or coffee

or to comment once again

on the panoramic view,

noting the seals or a lone

surfer astride his board,

awaiting a wave that early

December morn. Thus,

we rode poems over

the weakness of flesh

and the hammer of time,

holding darkness at bay

those wondrous hours,

while shining a light

on his path of grace

and peace for me to

follow. So, to any and

all who’d scoff at poetry’s

transcendent powers,

I’d query, you ever hear

about bone cancer Frank?