round man, freckled, bald, a
painful smile, red suspenders –
curious artifacts surfaced and
spoke loudly to me after he was
gone – in local copystore, a
wooden ruler clearly bore his
name; his war years’ poetry
read by his wife, Ruth;
for sale, his stringed instrument
collection – I have his mandolin

proto indo european heiress serves
PIE with coffee, tea, and
the heroic verses of her
ancestry – roots in Sparta, branches
in Stamford, she advances diner
ethos to an epic status
battling eminent domain and any
other domain that intersects with
hers along Columbus Park – sit
with her, hear Homer’s accents

she grants attention to each
small detail of human interaction
with her friends, preserves them
in her poetry with skills of
silent observation, photographer
who works in text, black on
white page and carefully composed,
she counteracts the grand disorder
that lives within children raised
in World War II Berlin

ma soeur sourire, the singing
nun of second grade, mustachioed
but beautiful to me for
her French name, kindness and
sweet voice, accompanied by guitar –

only now I learn that
the French “nique” is “an
obscenity for coitus,” an ironic
end as often happens when
reviewing icons of past innocence

we ate Cakes for the
Queen of Heaven sang songs
to the moon learned the
lore of goddesses danced around
the cauldron merry met and
merry parted on to other
adorations in hope that what
was born there doesn’t shrivel
rather rises full and glowing
into glory, O Divina Feminina

first co-star in a drama
I plotted out a number
of times – choosing a “best”
friend and making up the
script of our relationship,
all in my head, the favor
of her favoritism, then she
treats me badly, betrayal ensues,
next, geographic distance intervenes,
leaves left-behind-one sad