Implausibly, I took a friend to Fanfare
Books then nudged him through its doorway.
This was strange, since he wasn't really there.
Still, he kept me company. Morning rays
blessed, old bricks then revered a worn wood
floor. My companion targeted photography
so I watched him hunt for what he could
'til art caught my eye, nearly blinded me.
Though I was alone, the moment was shared.
This, the paradox of poets, this odd bond.
We crave solitude, yet solitude wears
on the very thing that lets words compile.
We met up in poetry. He dogged some Wilde
while I bagged a thin volume of Baudelaire.
* For my Friend, Caleb.