The poet who died the other month, 
or perhaps a different year?
I heard him beat a drum and chant,
or make some other holy noise;
the same place Lincoln spoke, quite nice, downtown, 
though I can’t remember where. 
I was convinced I liked him well enough
as I waited for the meet-and-greet, 
to buy a book, hoped to get it signed--long hall 
of women I thought I’d like to know.

I went back home, alone, stopped for a bite,
greasy takeout in a paper bag.
Then thought, he had a voice like God—
you know, the guy who played Mandela once? 
Or, who’s the queen got her head cut off 
at Henry 8th’s behest?
They say he sounded like a naked hiss. 
I forget and this only a recent list
of what’s gotten so hard to recall. 

Suddenly, I remember, and don’t quite know why: 
Cooper-Union, Morgan Freeman, Anne Boleyn, Robert Bly—
Everything will come to you, my fortune-cookie promised,
fetched from the bottom of the bag.
I’d hoped for more by now--a book of poems, to be rich, 
a name on everyone’s tongue.  
But it’s getting late to wait for will,
which seems to never come.