once we’ve walked down the hill
comparing bum notes
and seen that kookaburra
I think of going to look at blue poles
or returning to the piano in the room
an enclosed breezeway
with overexposed beams and lovely light through stained glass
it’s not really a piano
I’ll dry the dishes while you noodle
a fresh tea towel is just the thing, and I thought of it
I’m happy in the guide hall too
with its old portrait of the young elizabeth II
dressed like a sylphide
it must be the tulle that, for me, associates
that image with fonteyn’s trembling thigh
I don’t ever want to sit in a waiting room
listening to breakfast tv audio
ever ever again but some things are not a choice
why do the things that stay with you stay with you
are they caught on just two or three hooks
tiny velcro burrs in thought and experience that collect
musics, fabrics, patterns, light
a piece of buttery foil sliding around a plate
the smell of marine grease
I’m back in the stained glass room, but only in my thoughts
and the foot of the stairs
is the other place that seems to lead
to good times or the cover of pink moon or a house
on a river I saw on tv or the rooms I know only as elusive thoughts
is the fun stuff only fun if you have to do the other stuff too?
I should wake up every morning so happy
what are we doing today
we’re doing this, whatever this is.