Thursday, December 6, 2007



A California way of moving.
Second generation something,
like me. They don’t commit
hari kari, do they?
He did, the American way.
Bang, bang, I’m dead.
Like me, his sister wasn’t
in the DAR. I never thought about it,
but those who are, do -- you
always hear they are within
a minute or two.

Certain doors are always open.
The door to death
was open to him the other
night. It invited him to pass through.
He didn’t breathe a word.
Was your great-great a framer?
No, he couldn’t read; he tended sheep
for a farmer.
And you?

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