He was feeling depressed, even though he'd amassed
An impressive portfolio throughout his life.
He was plagued by ill health, and the loss of his wife.
"Your poems are priceless," I said to my friend
Not knowing, of course, that tonight was the end.
Wheelchair-bound and half-blind, Ed still wrote every day
On a manual typewriter; that was his way.
He tasted the hard life, walked down the mean streets.
Overall, Ed's achievements outweighed his defeats.
Homelessness, poverty, he knew them all
Saw the wake of world war, and sights to appall
Like a camp liberated, whose smoldering fires
Brought tears to a young soldier's eyes, and desires
To do terrible things to the terrible men
Who blithely destroyed futures that might have been.
97 long years produced volumes of verse.
For a "poor, simple poet," he could have done worse.
We said our goodbyes, and he promised he'd write
And then God called him home in the wee hours of night.
But Ed made me a promise, and he did not fail:
Two days later, his letter arrived in the mail.
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