after the song by Firestone Feinberg
November (for Susan)
 
No one would deny the man can sing—
a bit nasal and plaintive, but so loving,
the way he insists, against probability,
that the words reach the notes in time.
Measure twice, the old-timers tell you 
and like all sound advice, this rings true.
Pure song—the words matter here—not mere soul-cry. 
Fact is, you hear a little Londonderry Air in it,
and perhaps a bit of Dylan 
those times he came to think love possible, 
and Phil Ochs when older, bitterness almost gone, 
and facing down his demons. 
This our people’s tradition: 
chutzpah paired with sweetness makes heart-music—
the way he heard it inside
and transcribed for us as if 
from the other side of the trees.  
 
He died on a blowzy November-like day, 
but this was May, the most brilliant 
and saddest in memory. 
Like a poet, he’d been thinking these words for long 
about love, maybe the cost of losing love,
then, losing love forever and how that’s bound to feel.
This is our work, those who tread the lines—rehearse our end
and dwell in the sad inevitability of arriving.
He loved this woman,
told me he couldn’t live without her,
and counted on leaving first.  
Some say men lack the mettle  
to live on.  But you’d be wrong.
There is courage in declaring the helplessness
that could help turn it into song.