I had one of those sinking spells—she was no more than an infant,
blue eyes . . .
I thought I could smell some reel-to-reel tape
So I bought a pill halver . . .
Most of the furniture sat fading in the sunshine—
The child moved her tiny hand . . .
My blood pressure moderated (again), misguided, but innocent . . .
One more in a long series of “isms”
It was an ordinary garden-hose type of summer day in Caledonia
A vision painted there, but blinking at me, sadder than Modigliani
The infant liked this way too much
Her head growing taller, and thinner
Somebody handed me a card
You want to donate flowers?______ or food?______