Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

For three years we met

at one or the other LES hovel

chosen by Tony the Dealer,

who, like all dealers,

caught kicks by making you wait

while he babied Janis,

his French bulldog,

or chose a new scorched parka

for the day,

or breakfasted at IHOP,

followed by a last leisurely snort

with his girl, Jen,

before he took the 7 into the city,

or, reluctantly, a cab,

while we waited

on the pitiful dopesick ledge

of panic.

The sicker Rene got, the meaner

his wit and cruel laughter,

but never aimed at me,

because I saw who he was,

what it meant,

the gift of knowing him.

A year into our acquaintance,

he suggested dinner

at Veselka, his favorite restaurant,

a modest meal

of Ukrainian pierogi and borscht

at nine dollars apiece.

We talked of Bonzo,

how journalists were told

not to look him in the eye

‘for your own safety.’

Rene laughed, or cackled.

He said, That’s me.

Don’t look me in the eyes,

you guys, all of you.

I mean it, honey,

look me in the eye,

you die.

Shall we get more tea?

It’s on me.

He wanted no money,

had nothing to sell,

didn’t boast or brag or bitch,

except a little bit.

I knew what the dinner meant.

Now we were friends.