so I sit at a cafe and write a poem
about Margaret. A tall thin lady
a bit older than me and half a
world away now. She left the states
just left: left the New York she
craved for when my brother was
young. They went together.
They got a cat, lived, played
together. She sang, he saxed - the cat left
she followed. Now my brother
is there - a new cat, with a young
version of love. But this poem is
about Margaret and her need to run
abandon curves and curls, skirts
that swirl to a barcelona beat. all
given: a categorical imperative: her philosophy
supports her as she grades theories
of mind: she does not sing anymore,
she owns a dog and a very warm coat.
