Linden Avenue Literary Journal
Dead Letter Office: Spencer Brown
Even before I learned that you were dead,
I used to miss those horror movie marathons
in front of your TV. You filled and passed
the pipe, and we tried to pretend we were still
in the cavelike place on George Street, undergrads,
comrades in the movement and amusement.
I missed the long sessions of games,
crazy eights and canasta, your lengthy updates
on people at your library I'd never met.
Even your condescension bound me there.
My mother used to say that everyone needed
one friend they didn't like.
I lost my ties with all the gang
from Rutgers, lastly you,
and then forgot to miss you.
But chains can rust from disuse
You died before the great migration
to Facebook and the cloud.
Tony, too, but I see BJ and Sid there now,
floating amid the twenty-first century
links. What had been
was enough for you and me,
acid and Woodstock, nights of
revolution and Richie Havens.
Then our friendship slipped
into past tense, and then so did you.