Conversation with a dead poet

I stood beside the desk reading poetry

Even though it was time to go to bed

And I had no reason except the pleasure

Of hearing how you made love too

Years ago when you were alive

And wondering if it was really that great

Or if you’re just better at saying it than I am

I should count and find out how many of your poems

Are about love and how many are about death.

Neither of us ever talk about much else.