Jude

There are no wrinkles on his face

and he speaks calmly, without hurry.

He explains how the percentages

will be calculated and why taking on

contracts for artificial stucco

might not be a good idea,

in terms of my yearly premium.

And I think, fuck it,

what’s the use of anything

anymore when you find yourself

buying insurance to swing a hammer?

Somehow I kept thinking,

as he followed the columns of numbers,

about Jude, who played standup bass

and was the smartest person I knew.

We went up to Mt. Hood one thanksgiving;

he wanted to know what it was like

to sleep out, to hitchhike through

the Oregon countryside.

We got as far as Cherryville

before it turned cold.

His shoes were these old thrift store brogans,

thin leather.

So we stopped in Government Camp

at a cabin there owned by the college,

Reed College.

It snowed day and night,

day and night,

it fell off the roof in

little avalanches.

He told me years later how,

when he flew in and out of Portland,

he would look down on

all that snow

and think of me.

how the snow would

resonate

like the strings of a bass, a big stand up played full

tilt and shaking the walls with that deep rumble.