|Play me some Jimmy Buffett!|
Before we go to this event, however, my wife and I are going to a local Mexican restaurant to listen to some friends play in a band. It is the second date night my wife and I have had this week. That's one more actual date than we've had in the last six months. We're feeling a little like teenagers sneaking out for a quickie on the beach or something.
Anyway, I don't have much else to add. I did write a new poem last night while waiting for Donald Hall to begin reading. Oddly enough, it's about waiting for Donald Hall.
Saint Marty is ready for some margheritas.
Waiting for Donald Hall
Is like looking out the kitchen window
at fists of clouds,
Wondering when those fingers
When bullets of water will spill
from that palm
Of sky, sail down to black soil
in the pumpkin patch
Where two leaves have sprouted,
green as swamp, with promise
Of orange in their tender
stems, a wide orange,
Full of mulch and hay, vines
of frost on morning panes,
Candle grin of jack-o-lantern
on All Hallow's Eve,
When souls wander all night
in search of an open gate.
He appears in the doorway, hunched
over his walker, shuffles
To his chair, sits, lifts his beadle
eyes to the gathered crowd,
Clears his throat, ushers words
to his tongue, and makes a sound
Like driftwood in Lake Superior surf.