It has been a while, perhaps over a year. Why have I not been able to find the time for this gift of Dean and Michael and their invitation to write?
I once walked 125 steps
On my hands. Someone
must have counted
as the number comes down
these 60 plus years.
Along with the greatness.
I was the best.
From the shadows
I became known for
hand stands.
And in that moment
I recall the question
Is that it? Is that all I amount to?
As if I somehow knew
that this gay flexibility
back curved, legs balancing, head up
was indeed it.
….
Walking down Kenyata avenue
A small white skinned stranger in a sea of tall black
A moment ago when I stepped from the shore,
Keen, curious.
…..
He was a friend of mine
I find and roll dried up tobacco
to fit this unexpected dive
into a life, listening to Bob Dylan
His gift on our drawn our parting:
A personal collection of music on CD
from his thousands collected.
Dylan unplugged among.
I touch again the mystery of the man
I did not know.
He was a friend of mine.
He used to say, he knew me
only from what I wrote.
Did I not look directly to his Irish eye?
He was a friend of mine
What remains is gratitude
For Bob and Bob Dylan
and his gift given with love
(as it says on the CD)
and red wine with some blow.
…
This gathered commune on Zoom
Framed windows into their living rooms
Shelves of books (why are Michael’s all blue?)
Lamps below paintings, lines of timer roofs
Glasses frequent, hand to head
the other writing, below the frame,
Words teased with sharp wit and easy banter.
The kindness of strangers the theme.
Kalikellett 