After I posted an email from my friend about the assassination of Benazir Bhutto, Scott Lahti and David Zemens asked in the comments about the author, David Miller — specifically where they could read more of his prose.

David was the best man at my wedding and the humorless friend I mention in my first piece for LewRockwell.com, "Staw Men & Ham Sandwiches."

He is a poet and a photographer, who works for Associated Press, but unfortunately, despite his insinuation otherwise, David doesn't currently keep a blog. I will encourage him to try again.

In December, during the fortnight around the solstice, my wife and I sip single-malt whisky and take turns each evening, one reading the other a poem about the season. Every year, I include some of David Miller's poetry in my readings. Here's the one I read this year:

"Christmas Shopping"

Our hands slip apart,
I'm castaway.
Bobbing in a pedestrian current
thrown out among the hungry shoppers
of east 59th street.

David?

My name, like me is so small
among these people
as they hunt for symbols,
things to give the sense of
"Lie with me for 12 times 4 years."

She scans full-circle
a lighthouse look,
taking in the street
(its pickpockets,
          vendors,
               beggars innocents.)
in two half circles.

I, a baby boy in a red row boat
lost in the juggling and jostling
     handbags-thighs-knees-shoes.
She picks me out
the child she takes clasping
warm and tight against
the tide
her mother smell sweet,
with a deep hint of woman
                    shuts out the rest.

Lets it be unsaid
that you are my love,
               my jacket,
                    my safety belt
and I will never undo you
or let you come undone.