He is a joystick celebrant
Hands clutched tight and sweaty
Grasping plastic happiness
This poem, this strong prowed
ship of words, glides silent or
merely wind whistling
through every storm of moment.
do you know
how slowly, terribly
deliciously you kill?
My memories trapped you like a fly in amber,
a certain moment, a certain light.
You, sitting on the rain wet cement steps
in one of Portland's city parks, head turned to look up at me standing.
I think it would be fantastic
if I had any idea who you were.
I know very well the things you are
not. I have only love for the area