Phil

when i feel like you, i imagine
you're still waiting in your tan
90s honda civic, parked outside
that hotel in Pacifica; and i am
pretending to go inside.
but actually, that night
after you taught me how
to drink coffee with milk in it
because it gives it—substance;
after you told me how you knew
God when you played the saxophone;
actually, i climbed that hill in the wind
and met God myself on the cliff
watching the Sea endlessly assault
the relentless stones below.
we spoke of you, about the heritage
of grandfathers and their children;
i perched on the cliff, daring death
if the Sea air had ever let up:
i would have plunged like water
to dash on the sharp coast--
you drove home that night,
thinking God knows what, and
before we ever talked again,
just you and i, your body killed you
those many years after.