by Steve DeFrance
Kelly Cole, illegitimate son
of the famous crooner
Nat King Cole, is dead of AIDS.
We first met at the falcon’s cage
at the Museum of the Desert
in Palm Springs. Good looking, thin,
wearing jodhpurs, riding horses,
playing polo, driving a Mercedes.
We talked poetry. Eliot, Pound,
Hopkins & Thomas.
Yes,
We were people of the poem.
Special souls. Always alone.
He went to France
to drink sacred waters
that promised a cure.
A Republican.
He loved men and women alike.
Didn’t tell them he was infected
with the virus. He had his own don’t
ask? don’t tell policy.
He drove down to Long Beach.
I told him I wasn’t looking for a lover,
but a perfect poem, one with the final word;
the faultless phrase, like a Euclidean
line disappearing at the horizon,
or like the great reverberation
of the C major chord
sounding in all parts of the world
at the same time.
In short, a poem that eats your heart
not your private parts.
He laughed.
So, we talked about poetry instead.
He read me parts of his unfinished book.
Abstract and unknowable.
He left at three in the morning.
Called a few times, late at night.
Lonely to hear a word or two.
Died a few months later,
his book unfinished.
So Kelly, this one, I finished for you.
Last updated September 01, 2016