
I stacked rocks by a stream and/
washed my face. Fitting.
Does she still read me?/
Years of silence don’t mean that/
I’ll forget my Muse.
As in N’ahlens, my/
Gator jazz/blues saxman will/
just live in mem’ry.
OR
Gator saxman plays ‘Misty’/
just in my mem’ry.
At 1:26/
a.m., 33 years past,
Itty-Bitty came.
When a dream girl from/
your past once more reappears/
how should you respond?
She and her mom
(who I’d tried for forever
to get to Manhattan)
called me
from Katz’s deli,
ordering pastrami
on rye,
and,
what?!?
They’d gone to Central Park,
she, daughter,
New York experienced,
leading;
former wife,
naive,
in the giant green.
“What park is this?”
she’d asked.
And when my daughter answered:
“Central Park!”,
she said:
“I don’t know what I’m feeling right now!”
I told you!
I told her!
Gosh darn it all to heck!
Why wouldn’t she go
with ME?!?