The first poet I ever met,
and whose poems I've read
over and over.
The one copy I own
of his work,
now falling apart,
he sold on the street
wearing sandals
on a cool July morning,
in an unnamed Irish town.
I passed him three times
Clad in a greasy apron,
running errands,
threw him a shy girly smile,
stopped the fourth time for a chat.
He signed his book for me,
my first dedication,
in elaborate writing,
not knowing that he'd made way
for inspiration that lasted henceforth.

Lost your trace, James A. Kelly
in the maze of the past
Your poems that found me
thanks for making them last.