for Charlie Miller

Late nights, with summer moths clinging 

to the screens & the shadows of the Old Great 

flickering across the tv screen, suddenly, 

there would be Charlie's inquisitorial head 

peering in the window, the shock of white hair, 

followed by the heart-stopping shock 

of greeting. Just passing through, he'd say, 

and--seeing as the light was on-- 

thought we might have ourselves a talk.



Did I ever have time enough for Charlie? 

Usually not. The story of my life, 

of the one, as Chaucer says of someone, 

who seems always busier than he is. 

Then, abruptly, & discourteously, 

death put a stop to Charlie's visits. 

Summer moths collect still at the windows. 

Then leaves & winter ice. Then summer moths 

again. Each year, old ghost, I seem 

to miss you more and more, your youth spent 

with Auden & the Big Ones, words-- 

theirs, yours--helping you survive 

a brutal youth. Too late I see now 

how you honored me like those hidden 

gods of old who walk among us like 

the dispossessed, and who, if you are 

among the lucky ones, tap at your window 

when you least expect to ask you for a cup 

of water and a little of your time.