Almost too tired to write
Too tired to stir the chocolate powder
Into my bedtime drink
So tired that I fell asleep
Listening to the life story
Of the greatest writer of them all
Now, in a half alive recollection
I remember an old colleague
A true gentleman of Eastern European origin
A pristine refugee engineer who
(after he waxed lyrical) lent me his perfectly
Preserved copy of Anna Karenina
I mention John in the same breath as Verity
Where are they now, where do our friendships
(real and imagined) reside after those moments
When moments of joy are passed by
After those conversations and letters
Are, for a final time, passed over
