Leon and I watch the night sky. |
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. |