one of the boys who lives
in the basement – wait,
no longer boys, but come
to manhood, big and strong
and handsome, free with hugs,
occasional girlfriends, marginally
employed, but bound by some invisible
restraining order on the margins of
moving out of childhood’s home –
they’re neither here nor there

one of the small collection
of celebrity poets I’ve met
in person – a passenger in
my car for hours to the
Hartford airport, we had
a conversation long and deep
about certain family members
of concern – his ex-wife, my son –
I was glad to be a party
to this intimacy

blonde girl of Polish descent
she had a big voice starred
in sundry school performances
a Thoroughly Modern Millie and
a Funny Girl – she and
I were sort of friends
“sort of” meaning we stood
together at dances, sang together
but never really talked or
visited each other at home

“first lady of herbs” –
when I finally met her at
Caprilands where we went
for herbal lunch she was
far too old to function
even though they brought her
out to lecture from her chair –
she was a witch whose spells
explained the stoneyfacedness of
the young women working there

young teacher high school
biology a risky business in
a Catholic school but he
was bold and cute – dark
curly hair – one day in a grand
spontaneous gesture of
his personality stepped up
to the chalkboard and drew
a sudden circle one arm’s length
in radius and expertly round

investment professional, very tall,
lumbering, almost monstrous, otherwise
sophisticated, savvy, with a ready grin –
unbeknownst to him he caused a
warp in my geographic continuum
when he revealed his childhood
hometown in Idaho – Coeur d’Alene –
my kids’ grandparents live next
door in Sandpoint; I thought
it was our private Idaho