Been thinking lately about my late paramedic pal Ed Reardon, who's been gone four years—from the world, but not from me.
"I think of poems all the time," he said one night in Laschett's tavern. "I make 'em in my head. But once I think a poem, I never feel like writing it down. It's there! It's in my head! It's done!"
I asked him why he didn't just pick up a pencil and copy the things down. He looked at me like a CEO being told to take minutes in a board meeting.
He shook his head.
Then he winked.
"Some of these poems?" he nodded. "Pretty good."