For Georgia

Cremation, I explain
to a long-legged granddaughter,
is sensible.
Earth is too crowded,
leave room for the living.
Anyway, kiddo, you will always remember
some version of me. I hope it’s
the one brimming
with unconditional love.

But Nana, she asks,
what happens to your metal hips
when they cremate you?

Who knows? They melt, I suppose,
but not to worry darling girl,
that hand-in-hand walk we took to the park
on a sizzling summer day bursting with sweet air…

that will live forever.
                        

NYC, May 2022

Notices are taped
along the ancient fences
and WPA stone walls
announcing Spring concerts

The day arrives
gray-haired men
carrying battered instrument cases
energized by memories of arenas or
supper clubs and revved-up crowds
greet old friends, unpack, test mics,
tap into embedded memories
and break into glorious gutsy blues

willing to reveal so much
about themselves
to the fragile men and women
who have elevatored down
and slowly strolled over to
trip back to the glorious 60s

when high as a kite
or stone sober
youth and sass
led them to believe
that Spring was eternal
                        

“Be aware of the small things in the world, not necessarily the monumental things. 
The small things add up to a monumental reality.”
—Yusef Komunyakaa

I tell you, the life of a skeptic is hard.
No softening of edges,
no gossamer wings to flap away the buzzing in my ears.
Stars taunt, tides ebb
the physical world insists on recognition,
but I am no physicist, no mathematician, 
cannot reliably compute the way.
Nevertheless, small things
have made themselves known,
the blink of an eye,
your cold night feet pressing up against me,
the way you take my hand when we cross a busy street.