“In the long run,”
Predicted the economist Galbraith,
“We are all dead.”
“And nearly all,” adds The Voice,
“Nearly every last one,
Will soon be forgotten.”

“What about my children?” I protest.
“I will live on through them.
Grandkids even.”
“Perhaps for a while,” explained The Voice,
“But in the blink of a historic eye,
They too will be long gone
And forgotten.”

Yet I know that one day,
Maybe in a century or two,
Someone will pull an old book
From a library shelf,
Or discover
A poem, a play, a newspaper article,
And an author, a poet, a playwright,
An investigative journalist,
Will come back to life
And speak once more.

“In the beginning,”
Wrote the disciple John,
“Was the word.”
And in the end, we can add,
It’s the words that live on.

This poem was written for my best friend of 49 years, a legendary investigative journalist, who died last year.