No veil of mist to hide your face,
tonight I am the fog at your feet.
We know each other well, sister,
if not always by familiar light,
unmistakable by alibi.

Behind me, California sleeps,
the toast barely up in Albuquerque,
the coffee lukewarm in Omaha,
Detroit already revealed for
everything it will never be.

I’ve never stood opposite the Mona Lisa.

I’ve never heard the euphoria of “Ode to Joy”

or the bloom of Vivaldi’s “Spring.”

Though his favorite playground
sat between his ears,
he loved the fat, easy days
of a California summer.

I put the sign in the window:
Everything’s For Sale.
All aisles must be cleared,
every shelf must be emptied,

Beauty’s in the next room
and everyone’s enchanted.
She’s sitting on a piano, singing
an Irish drinking song, sober
as a Monday morning.