August 23, 2024
On this night fifty-eight years ago I became a poet. I remember it as if it were now. A great door turning slowly on golden hinges.
Missed my audition for the Symphony Chamber Singers. Maybe God telling me “Enough, already.”
Harris and her campaign bring so much joy into the world (my world, anyway) that I fear someone is going to take a shot at her. Some lard-ass in a red cap. Some Trump acolyte having head his master’s voice in the watches of the night. Maybe a Robert Kennedy’s being dismally mixed up in all of this puts it in my mind.
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