Elegy for Bill Reed

Day one was easy. We drank coffee and talked for hours
on a hip Fort Mundane patio. Phantom of the café, eccentric, broke—
in lonesome kenosis, you pondered Fibonacci in the hearts of flowers.

Lazy dharma sealed our communion. I worried if you ate or showered.
Dear brother, you always reeked of ashtrays and ancient smoke 
when we drank coffee, watched ends glow, and talked for hours.

Proud mathematician, you bragged that you fled CU’s ivory tower.
I applauded. We were sort of Fort Morgue buddhas when we spoke
of nada, paused and wrote of Fibonacci in the hearts of flowers.

My kids called you Uncle Bill on Thanksgiving. Your exponential power
grew petaled mandalas, maxims, poems, countless philosophical jokes.
I bloomed, too, when we drank coffee and talked for hours.

Yellow walls, yellow teeth knocked out by stroke. Your guffaw never dour.
Soft-hearted old hermit, saved by love—your fractal mind, unyoked,
simply preferred, over kinfolk, Fibonacci in the hearts of flowers.

Especially Rose. You texted once: I fear dying alone. How were
we to know you would—of course you would, gentle misanthrope—
as we laughed, lit matches, drank coffee and talked for hours?
Now you dream electric seeds, Fibonacci in the hearts of flowers.

2021

for my dear friend, with no obituary, who would likely prefer the title, "Billanelle"