I’m ten years away from the corner you laugh on
With your pals, Maggie McGeeney and Jean Duff.
The three of you bend from the waist, holding each other, or your knees, and shriek at the pavement,
Your polka-dot dress round your legs. Marilyn.
When I brood over these marvellous pleasures I have enjoyed, I would be tempted to offer God a prayer of thanks if I knew he could hear me. Praised may he be for not creating me a cotton merchant, a vaudevillian, or a wit.
Guess what you got, buddy. You got a little something I like to call a non-problem. You do not have an issue that you need to address. Trust me on this one.
Today, for example, I rode in a forest on an autumn afternoon under the yellow leaves, and I was also the horses, the leaves, the wind, the words my people uttered, even the red sun that made them close their love-drowned eyes.
Do all the talking, you know I’m gonna let you;
Time is a river that’s flowing in me now.
Into the darkness, chasing the sound of you:
Life is a journey, don’t you try and make it on your own.
It’s been far too long since she was moved like that, and not least by a spectacle she could write in binary tonight and reproduce again and again, tomorrow, the next evening, the next.