Infected By Books
When I lived in downtown LA Even then I had the bug Walk to Dawson’s Book Store Just to look Knowing nothing there I could afford But intrigued by rare books on their shelves A fever I could not undo Would go to browse and smell their age A lonely passion I was drawn to My aunt had given me old books Inherited from her family She could tell somehow I had the bug My enabler into antiquity Now still I buy and sell old books Paper ephemera and the like Old photographs and postcards too Got the bug way back then And it took a viral spike . . .
I just learned today that Ned passed away a week ago, May 25th, of a sudden, serious heart infection. I realized in the last day or two, I was missing something in my morning start to the day. Of course, it was Ned's daily poem. I went searching and found the sad news. In a world of instability and division, Ned was a quiet, thoughtful guiding light bringing people together, not pushing them apart, and reminding them of their common humanity. Ned decided he didn't want to publish a book of poems but he graciously offered us his Substack of Poems. Thanks, my friend, and condolences to Charyl, your family, and wide circle of friends.