Friday Night at Mr. Toots

Upon the first anniversary of David Crosby's death.

He paused at the top of the stairs

Searching the faces in the room.

Where to sit this crowded night

Just to be and drink fresh coffee.

My god, I thought, it's Jim West

What's he doing here … here … where I am

Just a couple of weeks in California

Far away from the high school

Where he wandered through his youth

Before he was sucked into Nam.

Jim lost a leg there and the candor

That lit his pathway to my heart.

This man at the top of the stairs

Chose a table in the far corner

Both legs carried him with grace

Passed patrons who gasped.

David Crosby sipped his coffee,

Scowled at the intruder shoving paper

Into his face. I popped through a fog

And remembered where I was.

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