Like a mini-mart off the highway,

Kyle Martindale gets older. Unlike

most poets, Kyle’s often on his way

 

from the gym, where he was rowing

on a machine outta water. Kyle got

hitched, hiked paths, chose classic

 

reggae, and flew on airplanes this year,

and that’s just this year. Not even gonna

count up all the feats he finished

 

during the other twenty-four. Hey

Kyle, we miss you here, the way

you’d decide on dancing most times

 

and eat the same beany slop three

meals a day, sometimes in a good bowl

from home, on the go, on campus. Hey

 

Kyle, there are people that you know

that don’t know how to handstand like

you do. But Kyle, we know you’d teach

 

us if we asked. You always do.