Two Shorts

Something Like Childhood

He speaks well through wire-enforced glass. Keeps strict law among star-faced moles while I stay at home lit by a pair of crystal hurricane lamps. Enthralled by stereo, moon shots and color tv. Nat King Cole sweaters carry the sun down. A misery lands electric like dancing. John Kennedy dead.


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Foreverly


Late afternoon sun creates golden flecks on her arms as the Canadian uke man jumps about like Jiminy Cricket, giving his audience of six heartfelt atomic razzle dazzle. Her hand on mine, the sense of everyone's gathered breath, the blast of coffee - I've waited over a decade for this: drop the feeling into a river and watch it spread in far reaching ripples.



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