Happy Buddha

I had crazy summer hair,
curled from sweat,
when Em took my picture
and said I looked like Robin Williams.

It was your birthday, too, and I
was everybody’s Happy Buddha,
nobody’s MacArthur,
as the last cinder fell on Riverfront
to the star spangled music of a thousand
cars going nowhere.

A parking garage hour is enough
to remember the night you hated
your new haircut, short and tapered
in the back, and I drank
so much my eyes crossed.

Sake and vodka, that’s a lot of alcohol
for one drink, but not enough to forget
a field marshal and bass drums marching
up the theatre aisle. I could have
touched them.

I could have touched your hand
as we walked along darkened shops,
stopping to look at sleeping cats
and someone else’s wedding dress.

I could have told you, but only
stood there cross-eyed while you
and your haircut were beautiful
in the Village windows.


  1. oh, chance. stop trying to cheer me up.

    seriously? it is another beautiful piece of writing.
    well done, by brother, well done.

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