I keep wanting to talk to you. I keep
wanting to walk with you. I keep seeing
us mosey along the river, it’s steep
embankment—rich farmer’s green—proceeding
past market to president’s library.
I hear you speak of children, antiques, art
and smiles. Your new place. We laugh and parry
quips about our quirks: your hoarding small parts
of inspiration; my finding sonnets
in cracks of walls. Tell me what that old log
caught in currents means to you. Can we let
it serve as a cat’s refuge, chased by dogs
to river’s edge some future day downstream?
Tell me where you go inside, what you dream.
Roger Armbrust
February 25,
2013
