The Wine List Is a Joke

The wine list is a joke, said the famous poet 

we took to dinner at a restaurant we could afford. 

My partner, who in those days could still drive, 

had ventured two hours to pick up our guest. 

During the drive, the story went, they got on

like crackers and cheese. 

Gaffe notwithstanding, we made it through the evening, 

and the crowd was elated to have the poet read.

Recently I found a handful of her poems in a small journal.

She wrote of frailty, aging, and her now simpler life,

I felt in those words a softer fire, a ghost of a version

of the personage we'd hosted.  

And now with so many losses to grieve,

I allow myself to like her on the page.