OPEN READING EPITAPH

     by Van Yu

He waved at me that last time at Cornelia Street. 
A sign of simple recognition, or dare I dream
approval for a fledgling peering over aerie’s
edge into minefields danced with glee as expert
as a chef creating something savory and
smooth as butter bellowed in a café basement.

I wonder if he noticed my first ink shed
before his paint filled the room and sparked my notions
of singing half as boldly as I imagine
he routinely did, even as he simply
ordered breakfast on the morning he was robbed
from us.

Why does God allow a poet’s passing? 
Who else tags a meaning to downstairs air exchanged
as wampum more dear than wages earned?  I cry
for you
who bathed in a tenor’s intonation
enjoyed as if a heart could grow a pair of ears.