Something inside me resists calling Kenneth Koch my favorite poet. His poems are too conversational, too easy-going, too entertaining to be so important. Except the one that made me break out in laughter while I was reading it on a treadmill at Bally's. And the one that made me cry (on that same treadmill, damn it!) And the one that scared me--really scared me--because simply, lightly, even jokingly, it presented a truth I absolutely did not want to hear. . .Now that I think of it, I realize that without any special effort on my part, I formed the kind of relationship with Koch that folks back in the old country had with Yevtushenko, Bloch or Pushkin. (Without any effort on my part, I say--all the effort was Koch's.) Koch is dead now, of course. But open the pages of this book, and he'll become a part of your life as well--as a friend, a teacher, a soulmate.