I am sitting with some of my possessions
by the steps and stone shadowed lions
outside the New York Public Library
there is a fellow there selling his poetry
in bound books
he has a table small with a sign:

Meet the Author

he is warm and personable
offering his hand with a wink and a smile
to strangers of the great city
and sharing lines of his verse with zeal
he appears to be a perfect match
of my dear departed friend
Jack Nuthall
mannerisms
enthusiasms
and I wonder
now that I reside in this poem
how many Jacks are still in this world roaming ?
I mean the exact person
how many of myself are brooding in the shadows  
believing that we live individual lives
when we exist beyond count