To The Poet

He still listens to the songs, yes,
the ones you put together so meticulously.

He listens to them at night, sometimes, and sometimes
he imagines how you must have pored through each one,

"This one won't do, no. This one, maybe."

The morsels of delicious words you concocted, as well,
will always nourish him, but not just him,
not anymore.

Whenever he takes a thoughtful stab with his own fingers,
he thinks of you. The mechanics are the same,
"This one won't do, no. This one, maybe," and sometimes,
for just a second, his hands become completely numb.