Gallery after gallery
in the cool conditioned air
sketches and traces and objects of his art
capture the heart.
His songs played in low tune
fills the atmosphere with an unworldliness.
Here you are immune to the outside
where a hot sun scalds hungry dogs
a man carries ten times his weight
people haggle for little bargain.

The museum hides the pain
and the poet's dreamy world matters little.
But you forget and delve deeper.

The dog struggles to learn
the art of living
for a day.

Bottled root beer tastes like summer.
The kind I used to spend
on Kelley’s Island as a kid with
bicycles and put-put,
ice-cream cones too big and
beach trips that stretched
the length of a road too long.
The kind of summer that doesn’t end
but rather lasts too long
in the June-heat and lake-splashes - filled with laughter
from siblings who still haven’t grown old enough yet
to think twice about laughing with their younger brother.

Bottled root beer is sweet
with condensation and sweat -
sweet reminders on my tongue
that though it tastes of memories,

that makes it taste all the sweeter.

OH PHOTOGRAPHIC YOU!

you...yes...you
wearing the latest
cloud upon your head

living your life
in Kodachrome
leaving your B&W world

and see here
a tree in full bloom
growing out of your head

and see there you
with only half a head
in Polaroid Land

now you no longer
here or there
I love the photographic you

even all these
badly taken snaps
a treasure trove of you

all these awkward moments
tears that bring
laughter

now you gone for ever
but these holy relics
possess your smile

I shove them to
the back of a drawer
unable to look at them

but knowing I will
again and again when
pain bites through the soul

you...yes...you
wearing the latest
cloud upon your head

living your life
in Kodachrome
leaving your B&W world

and see here
a tree in full bloom
growing out of your head

and see there you
with only half a head
in Polaroid Land

now you no longer
here or there
I love the photographic you

even all these
badly taken snaps
a treasure trove of you

all these awkward moments
tears that bring
laughter

now you gone for ever
but these holy relics
possess your smile

I shove them to
the back of a drawer
unable to look at them

but knowing I will
again and again when
pain bites through the soul

The black cat brings bad luck,
how low stupid men can stoop
is beyond your imagination,
literate but never really
liberal but not liberated
from long held prejudices.

Drive that black kitten away,
don't look at it,
it shows up at your home means
bad times are on the way.

The cute little kitten breathes heavy
chased from one door to the other
without the least idea why
seeking the comfort of love
is such a big sin.