Another Sunday morning,
unbuttoned & carousing,
the usual suspects in the usual
get ups—spritzes of colognes,
big block letters on sweatshirts.
The church bells ring periodically
in the distance, reminders
of the church pew I’m supposed
to be parked in. Slick shoes on,
a couple of bright chains tangling
around my neck as I try to outrun
myself on a brick street lined
with museums. Antiquity on every
floor, persistent as the bells
that keep clanging. This is the old
me: just dumb enough to expect
my escape plans might work
because they were my plans.
The me who mistook fall plumage
in the periphery for the replicated
Van Gogh in my mother’s garage,
hours practicing a French horn
out there to twirl in the hero line.
Those days, when I was high
minded & wobbly, French horn
handed, I wanted the same things
Van Gogh did probably, only
in decibels. Pigment & lasting dye,
everything bright & forgivable.