Memorial

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I was sitting in the room with Phil Whalen
When he got that call from Allen.
It was the room where I had served
Them tea and cookies many times
While they told stories, joked and laughed.

It was at about the same time that
Allen usually dropped in
On his old friend,
Just before Zazen,
The time for everything and nothing.

Sometimes, a memory would
Float to the surface and they’d
Go on and on, words and memories
Bouncing off one another
Sometimes sad, more often bright

Then no words.
But always love.
“I’m so sorry,” said Phil’
“Thank you for calling,”
His voice trailing off.

He put down the phone,
His voice soft and shaken.
“Allen’s dying,” he said.
“I’m so sorry."

Then he cried.


I’d never seen him cry before.

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