The poetry reading had been going well. This annual Philly event drew a sizable crowd, but this year—for unexplained reasons—the hall was jammed. Crammed in the third row, at the break I stood to stretch and look around. McQuitty, one of our greatest local poets, was sitting at the end of the last row. I hadn’t seen him in over a year. Then he had given up driving and was using canes. His devastating divorce some years ago had left him nearly broke. He had moved to Baltimore to live—in exile, as he joked—with his mother and sister. Eventually they had died, he had had illnesses, it had not looked good.

Now he sat there, his sizable bulk regal in the chair, his beard bristling and glistening. A sweet-tempered man for a poet, his amazing memory could reel out reams of poetry, all night if necessary. And we too knew and recited some of his more famous ones. He waved and nodded to people, who came over to pat him and carry on chunks of conversation. As proceedings wound down, I finally was able to edge over to him. “McQuitty, you look great! But how the hell did you ever get here and climb all those stairs?” He beamed at me. “I had to make this last poetry reading, laddie. I’m just passing by.” And he was gone.