In every room of the press club, I found a journalist

I worked with once—before they were fired or quit

or had a spiritual awakening. Through that doorway,

another PIO here to pay their respects. We gathered

like seals huddled on the dock while orcas worry the bay.

We gathered like dust motes in afternoon sun.

We mourned with whiskey and Coors and cowboy boots.

The man we mourned had no children. He left behind

ex-wives, a brother, a barstool, a bungalow in Corrales

and an empty desk at the newsroom stacked with books

on journalism history. He left behind words full

of compassion and good humor. He left behind stories

and stories and stories—features, hard news, obits.

“He could walk in a bathroom and come out with a story,”

an editor said once. We toasted his name and heaped on praise

he would have brushed away. We knew he was alone sometimes,

the same as us. We knew he gave much of his life to a calling,

our calling. We gathered like typeface crowded on a page.

Cathy Cook writes about the body of the land and the landscape of her body. She is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet, the 2018 Albuquerque Poetry Slam Champion, and an award-winning New Mexico journalist. Her poetry has been published in Raven Chronicles and Roanoke Review, among others. Find more: rewritereread.wordpress.com.