again the little poems
again the gentle rain

softdrops on the pool’s surface
then thunderstorm insane

my memories make me woozy
ah! my miserable brain

born long after Bob Cousy
but I’ll ride that Boston train

all the way to Buenos Aires
then Norte to Portland, Maine

I loved, and lived, and lost
lost love like life in vain

still my sons tonight are sleeping
as Don Quixote sleeps in Spain

                    La Mancha!
                     (the Stain)