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“I wrote this poem after visiting Joe Cohen, a poet and photographer who suffered a stroke and died at the age of 100 in December. Joe had just attended a performance of Handel’s Messiah and was explaining to a young friend the inner workings of a Beethoven piece the night the stroke hit him. He lingered for quite a long time, clinging to the life he so loved and enjoyed. I knew Joe through the Bagel Bards and worked with Joe briefly in my capacity as poetry writing coach. He attended a one-man performance of my play Every Broom and Bridget—Emily Dickinson and Her Irish Servants and took some fabulous photographs. I will miss him.”

For Joe Cohen, On His Way Out

Tom Daley

You seem to shudder

when I hold your hand,

seem to rustle up a cough

of recognition,

seem to say, with the half moons

of your eyes,

I am almost

with the animals now,

placing my trust

in that dark lair

where breath doesn’t count

itself in or out,

where ripeness is slower

than a century,

where all the surprises

are shedding their fur.

— Tom Daley

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