It didn’t come this year,
& hasn’t any year since his suicide,
to sit in the top right hand corner
of the page in the shadow the leaves
make when readers thumb thru,
but never read his poetry.

In life he was more than drunk on poetry,
& the brevity of words. He can’t look at you
now from the shadow of the leaves
you thumb thru, not a mourner,
& he can’t rap on the side
of his saucer to make you hear

him. He can’t thank you
when you pour his glass full until
it flows over & he can’t drink slowly
of it, the Mojito you’ve served,
& you can’t talk about him
with another reader who

knows he is Ernest. You
can’t wish he would go home, & wish him,
dead these fifty years, to leave unserved,
for you have no love for words, such roley
polley nada they are. He can’t drink his fill,
nor watch you go lie down with your wife who

waits in bed for you. A wife
would be of no good to him now.
He can’t scowl at you from across the page.
You don’t have to hurry. You could bring
more words to fill his empty glass, a matter
that he demands. You seek to shut his book.

He can’t stand up, slowly look
at his glasses & pay you sans chatter,
nor tip you, knowing your yearning
for your young wife. He can’t know you’ll age
& someone might serve you with a scowl
or wish that you would take your own life.

He can’t walk away unsteadily with dignity
& his ghost never comes to Kentucky.

-Rudy Thomas