After his death he frittered
His being in Bangor watching
Late-night TV. At dusk he might
Drink ale or laze across a bench
At Fish Pier boning up on stars.
Once a week he was required
To contact the people whose lives
Had touched his chord. He might
Leave a flea-bitten flyer
Under their windshield wiper—
Have you seen my lost cat? Or
He'd email, inviting them
To loan princely sums to a prince.
Do you remember ascending, once,
And your elevator stopped but
No one got on or off? That was him.
That was the one that got away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem