THE LOSS OF A FRIEND

THE LOSS OF A FRIEND

for Dick; book store owner, extraordinaire

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1994, 2005



"He died," you say.

The words echo impotently,

as strange and empty

as though you had told me

it rained one day in 1852.

I hear you, I understand,

but somehow, it does not seem real.

Last week, when I stopped by

you mentioned he had been feeling ill for several days,

and would not be down, that rainy afternoon.

I heard him upstairs,

occasionally scrapping a chair on the floor,

or coming down hard when he stood up,

thumping and shuffling around above us.

The weekend before, while we talked in the back room,

he had come in from his office-cubicle,

and, leaving to get you a Coke from next door,

offered to bring me back one.

I showed him my hot-coffee-in-icky-styrofoam,

and thanked him, anyway.

And now, "He died Monday."

Just over 24 hours since I heard him.

Never made it to the procedure to make him better

(but maybe not well),

which, had Wednesday come,

he might have been too weak for.

The past two days,

I have looked at the ceramic porcupine

you gave me from the shop,

as though to reaffirm it (or he) is still here.

This morning, I looked out my kitchen window at

the overcast sky, promising rain,

and noticed birds huddle on the power line

like so many musical notes.

I counted to see how many birds there were

in this melody.

Oooonnneee,

(half hidden behind the neighbor's chimney)

two, three,

(I've never bought into the reincarnation stuff;

I share the Christian belief of

one birth,

one life,

one death,

one afterlife per person)

four, five, six,

(I almost feel, though,

that I can sense your spirit

with these notes

shivering against the impending rain)

seven,

eight,

nine, ten,

(you had a great record collection in

your store -

Big Band,

jazz,

everything)

eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen,

fifteen,

on the top line,

numbers sixteen and seventeen

one line lower,

and three more -

eighteen, nineteen and twenty -

on a third line at a right angle.

Suddenly,

as if on a quiet count from

a Big Band Beat,

they fly,

bringing your spirit soaring with them.



This is based on a real death. Dick owned a bookstore in Pinellas Park, Florida for the last few years of his life. It was a funky place with new and used books, several shelves in the middle of one room with tons of vinyl records, and a definite feel to it. He also had several comfortable chairs in the first room just inside the front door, along with a coffee urn and a pot of hot water for the selection of herbal teas and cocoa offered free of charge. His office was next to a staircase in a small room; the staircase led to his apartment above the bookstore.

Dick's death came as a shock; he'd been sick for maybe a week, and his significant other kept the store going until his death, then had to make the necessary calls to friends. At his memorial service, held at the bookstore, she chose small knickknacks to pass out to regulars to remember Dick by.

Most of this poem was written shortly after Dick's death, the last 5 lines in 2005. It took me that long to finish it.

This is part of a growing collection tentatively titled Working Class Poems.