A chair with its leg broken.
A typewriter and a Marchant Calculator.
An old man turning seventy.
A pond at seven in the morning.
A whisper to a neighbor.
And a tan labrador. These
are the days of whispers
where everything is broken
and only a child knows his own name.
I was once the best and that is something nice to know.
God granted me a life charmed with adventure.
So for you I tell you, you were filled with grace and charm
and wit and insight, and Buzzie. And we were the best.
A storm comes softly upon the years and its voice
is silence as in waiting. Waiting for the clouds.
For the ocean of storm. For the sea of aging.
These are mine and they are broken upon time.
I give you a conjurers wish, a linguistic structure
of what would have been worse, a comedian’s
shoestring… my signature.
September 