The years drift by us
your dad gave me a haircut
in Boston after school
you were in the barber shop
in laughter,
drinking a tonic
without a tad of care
obeying the golden rule
not without a sonic flair
as you were a good boy
soon to be a Star Trek Nimoy,
obeying every traffic stop
in the neighborhood
soon we would be
into sci-fi, stand-up comedy
sitting down on stage
reading pages of Tom Mix
comics and poetry,
once going to Hollywood
on the same plane
when it was snowing
sharing our out-of-sight love
of Poe, Emily Dickinson
Whitman, even Baudelaire,
now you at the height
of the last frontier.
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