for A. A. C.

“In the brave days of old,”
I said at each stanza’s end.
I read from a book, in the cold,
at a meeting of friends.

I remember one thing clearly
from all that I read in the cold:
you murmured the last line with me,
In the brave days of old.

by Amos J. Hunt

This poem first ran in the Jan/Feb 2006 edition of Grub Street Grackle. It appears here online for the first time.