square white world

he knew this air,

          knew this monumental procession of cloud

 rain hangs in the air

           without pressure or promise
 
 
 but I don’t know how he knew the rain

           or this ragged coastline

 in a way that was his alone,

           or knew the tangle of lives
 
 
 on most mornings for a dozen years

           I saw him sit on the barstool

 at Brazil and Rex would say, the wit

           and wisdom of David Peterson:
 
 
 Never eat anything bigger than your head

           and Never put anything  

 smaller than your

           elbow in your ear
 
 
 while Dave read the paper, measured the bites

           of his breakfast,

 drank his coffee, and he and Rex

           grumped about the world and state of business
 
 
 Dave turning his face sideways to comment,

           bringing his voice up to air

 from a certain depth, a depth of certainty.

           The absence of him is hard and present.
 
 
 After Brazil, for a baker’s dozen years

           he was my most regular coffee client,

 I measured my consistency by his. Always

           knowing I could rely on him
 
 
 to let me know if the quality of service suffered

           from changes in circumstance—tangle.

 The lives he kept me updated with. The years passed.

           He never asked to be celebrated,
 
 
 Never asked for the praise he was due

           as solo dad to his two children

 for the way they prospered—he told me

           how they were doing, how they did.

 Had my admiration always, and I imagine
 
 
           many were and are impressed because

 he was an impressive man, whose

           good works were never good works and

 he kept out of the light they reflected
 
 
           on him. He never commanded the respect

 shown him. A look was enough, as
  
          others are better placed to say, in his profession

 also outside of the light
 
 
           his fingers moving over the controls in the

 little light on the desk, wearing black,

           tweaking the sound to the precise spec

 of the gear so it got the praise not him.
 
 
           He would not ask to be celebrated like this

 but I ask myself what it is to do right

           by him and this writing is my work, Dave.

 The rain that was pendant
 
 
           fell for a while and has passed, clouds have

 dispersed. I have asked about the air:

           what does it mean to have breathed a while

 in it and then not to be?
 
 
           not to be present in it and sharing in it, the

 tangle of lives—Never leave a lead

           tangled. A cable has a memory of being twisted

 it needs time in the heat of the sun to lose
 
 
           for it to be coiled. It means a

 certain amount of work needs to be done,

           then a little sleep,

 before it is, for it to be, perfect. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 — for David Peterson (d. 30 December 2020)
 
 
 [Simon Taylor,
 2 January 2021]