Saturday, November 05, 2005


Annie's birthday is this month. Annie has been my buddy since I was eighteen. Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana. Annie likes this poem I wrote about her:


A strange bird,
Perched on the vinyl and chrome
Of a battered bar stool.

She’s got a shoulder shaking laugh
And no reason to be laughing.
The hahaha’s fly up to heaven.

She’s thinking about everything.
Every thing that went wrong.
Every thing that went right.

A water-beaded beer glass
Clutched in one hand,
More for courage than thirst.

She’s telling herself a tale.
Not noticing the bar's orchestra
Bottles, mugs, Martini glasses.

Amidst the clinking symphony,
She’s suddenly silent, suddenly sitting still
Trying to hold onto the story of her life.

Her terrible epiphany
That the littlest gesture
Can spin out a story.

She’s welded to that stool,
Wild, wide-eyed,
Brimming, barely contained.

Oh, now she knows alright,
That every action
May turn epic.

Especially for someone
Who thinks
Too much.

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