The metallic Everest plasma of the old Wishing Well
Had an Abe Vigoda aroma with a nostalgic veneer
Of lost roads and upset carts.
The fumes are like gossamer limpets
On your golden soul, in a fitful sleep-
to rival all awakening.
The very air had a door that wept glee
and sang of dark angels brooding over
slabs of pie and squandering sunrise
to fork a tongue.

You are always there,
however the leaving arrives.
You’re like a hat
on a hat
Without too-
wise.