After his death he frittered
His being in Bangor watching

Late-night TV. At dusk he might
Drink ale or laze across a bench

At Fish Pier boning up on stars.
Once a week he was required

To contact the people whose lives
Had touched his chord. He might

Leave a flea-bitten flyer
Under their windshield wiper—

Have you seen my lost cat? Or
He'd email, inviting them

To loan princely sums to a prince.
Do you remember ascending, once,

And your elevator stopped but
No one got on or off? That was him.

That was the one that got away.