It’s a gutting blow,
like a chef filleting a fish,
that takes ones breath away.
A professional traveller,
tall with silver hair,
and a new York accent.
Took a world places they hadn’t seen,
to taste all that there was,
that could be,
but windows only stay open for so long,
and this image is gone,
it’s narrator gone,
no longer to be watched by millions,
no longer entertain with quips and the outsider chef,
to be honest,
I am trying my best to write this poem,
but I can’t,
the speech has left me,
and my greatest apologies,
but one of my writing heroes is gone,
off to Parts Unknown.
I tried to write this one poem for Anthony Bourdain, but I just couldn’t so here is why this poem is so odd. I’m shaken, and I wish all my sympathies to his family. To his crew. He will be missed.
And if you ever need to talk, or feel low, PLEASE, call someone. A charity or something. There is HOPE! Always.