Hale-Bop

From California comes news most grim
39 corpses, in a hillside mansion
39 spirits, cast from their vessels.

After tapioca it’s always sing-a-long
“Amazing Grace” ad nauseum.
Leon and I, still ambulatory
slip out to the rockers
on the tree lined side,
view the western sky.

“Hey Leon, why don’t we ever sing Sinatra?”

Leon’s hair is wavy like a boy
with a cow lick in the back.
He can’t speak since the stroke
but one eye still twinkles
on his impish side.
I talk and Leon listens
or doesn’t, who knows?

“Hey Leon, that gloom doom TV preacher says this thing’s a sign.”

Unseasonable warmth
sets spring in motion,
a cricket and peep frog concerto
in the valley below the home.
A bat flutters in the parking lot,
and I see the cigarette ember
of a dietary aid behind the dumpster.

“Hey Leon, how come shit has to smell bad?
Why not make it smell like flowers?”

I wish a couple ladies had joined us,
I still like them around
at least the continent ones
but they oppose even a mild March chill
have little interest in the celestial.

A match flame speck high
above our tallest sugar maple.

“Hey Leon, this thing that happened, it’s Performance Art,
that Warhol thing, fifteen minutes of fame.”

Leaning forward I strain to see
a starship in a comet’s tail
39 pilgrims, make a phantom crew
39 spirits, now know the truth.