puddle-talk

To 630 in the morning and E who slips on his black Neal jacket for the thousand and one-th time.

To how easy everything is when all you have to do is wake up with Jazz.

To the white elephant who makes his home twixt Park and Yamhill, and to the rain.

To tweed ricket chairs sitting round hourglass morning tables.  And window-gazing too.

To the old Italina-capped maestro dragging on outdoor and narrow alley stairs.

To the Buddha who sleeps soundly 'mong the firescapes while the building burns slowly down.

And to Mrs Peacock under a polka-dot umbrella, grimly bearing the slave-weight of purse, shopping pouch and poncho.

To the myriad pairs of long, slender, solid-colored and suggestive synthetic rain boots.

To continuing this one among all the many memories still remembering just one.

To pretty little city.

To pretty little city and when all the time her guardian mother-cloud hangs perpetually overhead, cries her eyes on all the children.

And to a cloudy glass of water by the bedside.