An event you invented as Benicia’s first
poet laureate, the poets’ picnic was held
without you, only three days after you joined
the realm that Benicia’s second laureate,
Bob Shelby, beat you to by a fast five months.
Benicia’s sixth laureate read a poem to the
picnic-goers she posted online, a tribute
to you and your mentorship, while I,

on the other side of the Carquinez Strait,
read three of your poems to the Valona Deli
Second Sunday crowd that you so often
charmed. In Johanna’s poem, glasses featured
as a distracting item to be discarded.
At the deli I needed the microphone, as usual.
Oh, how we miss your booming voice and your
disdain for the props we here continue to require.

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