She was fresh from the battle of lawn. Brown, leatherish weed-kicking boots and green bandannaed skull properly impassive to ignore desparate, anguished pleas for mercy, she stood.
Dropped in on Cleopatra yesterday burning into this morning. Her prominence has faded; her glory brightened. She can still light many candles with a clutched fist, tucked high and mighty. She spoke of Mercury and won me over for another thousand years. She spoke of justice and won my action. She spoke of Dreamgirl and won my imagination. She spoke of everything with the pace of a thoroughbred and the impact of a heavyweight.
We laughed silly, played ping-pong, cooked shrimp and ate watermelon. The watermelon was from Texas, the shrimp from Louisiana, the ping-pong from Mexico, and the laughter was from Tibet. No kickin' idea whence the foosball came. Talk of the unfed and distant shores, art, music, architecture, an unlucky brilliant brother-in-law, an unlucky derelict brother-in-law, and untainted childhoods chequered the conversation.
"a face I know is beautiful
with fire and gold of sky and sea
and the peace of long warm rain"
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To be is to do. To do is to be. Do be do be do
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