The Old Poet

                            In loving memory of Joseph Karasek

How long could this sort of thing go on?

I hear the old man’s voice haunting me

as I write—

                    the voice of a ghost

even when the old poet was alive

his voice that of a ghost.

He went on and on, died at 97,

his mind crisp as the icy bite

​                    of a grim winter storm.

He used to tell me that the endings

of my poems should be the beginnings

​                    of new poems.

How long could that sort of thing go on?