It’s a universal feeling of loss
forlorn longing,
an unfilled void
defying sense or wisdom.
For some it malingers
a few weeks, months.
For others
it never ever leaves.
There is no end to it—
malingering for years.
We miss a voice
the touch
a ragged smile
a telling word.

Akin to the emptiness
a famous poet
feels after separating
from his portable type-
writer lost
between our campus and his home
in New York City.
He called me often–weeks
& months
still missing
his writing companion.
I called him some
to be in touch.

More than a year
later we met
I saw for a palpable
second in his eyes
his need to hear about
his help mete.
My friend, the poet,
is now gone.
I try to assuage our losses
–the poet’s and his portable typewriter–
by bringing us together
in lines of this poem.

– Earl J. Wilcox