ON CAMBRIDGE STREET

We met when I'm up
for a cup of Java
early on Cambridge St.
you were down and hurt
Professor Robert Lowell
but there was poetry
on your confessor's tongue
you enjoyed
the tender flower child
in her motley Garbo way,
a runaway from Soho
who bought us menus
and hung around
to hear you read
in the cold greenish kitchen
full of ham and eggs
you enjoyed my poem
for the opened hearty day
your voice still echoes
in a familiar wayside inn
and begs a question
from a master of words.