1969–2015
This is a poem about Justin Chin.
This isn’t about me.
I hate that I have to write this.
I wish I could talk to him instead.
This isn’t about me:
I’ve been rereading Justin.
I wish I could talk to him; instead,
I’m sitting on Valencia Street.
I’ve been rereading Justin.
“Misery meets Luxury.”
I’m sitting on Valencia Street,
where we drank tea.
Misery meets luxury:
now, there’s a retail concept
where we drank tea.
A notion, an idea—
Now there’s a retail concept.
A dose of our own medicine,
a notion, an idea—
I’d love to hear his withering take.
A dose of our own medicine?
“Grief is accurate. Grief is not accurate.”
I’d love to hear his withering take
on a billion-dollar drug.
Grief is accurate. Grief is not accurate
enough to try to measure a man
on a billion-dollar drug—
which is the old, with a fresh patent.
Enough. To try to measure a man,
so generous, with a new draft—
which is the old, with a fresh patent—
is impoverished, a memory puzzle.
He was so generous with a new draft.
This is a poem about Justin Chin.
Poetry couldn’t save him; it never can.
I hate that I have to write this.
