Tuning In (Poetry)

Some nights I sense them sitting near —
the ghosts of two known men I liked
who come to warm themselves and yarn
beside my admiration’s fire.

I listen hard to all their talk —
the easiness of friends who know
what dark is out there — how it sings
with words love still might get to share.

Dead hands no longer need a pen
for my quick ear is keen and sharp.
I hear those echoes bounce between
and fold and keep each mellowed laugh.

Such strings of reminiscences
play tricks inside my nodding head
while wisdom speaks and goads me on
to note what’s hanging — left unsaid.

Mine or theirs — the feeling’s true
unrolling line on line on line.
I tune in — take a sip or two
of intellect’s red-blooded wine

and let their ramble take me off...
The drowsy room fades from my sight
I see what they saw — share that glow
and so I write
                                and write
                                                        and write.