LACES TANGLED IN DYLAN BLUE
It was the untranslatable sea that hooked
onto a resurrection song
and would not let go of the expanding
underbelly of a mumbling universe
until I could reach the wet sand
covered with crabs and 7th grade shoes.
Someone was whispering
into sea shells at first light
leaving tall tales reminiscent
of Hank Williams or Marty Robbins.
Einstein could play a mean Stradivarius
at the drop of a soft shoe.
I always wore t-shirts
with the best feral cats on the front.
Jerry Orbach got all the loaded zingers
on prime-time Law and Order.
Bill Gregg could beat me on the tennis court
anytime of the day no matter
whether I was wearing my Adidas or not.
His reward for being so good
was that he got to grow up
and become a ground-breaking dentist.
For me give me the library, poetry, art,
and as many fussy cats as possible
stretching out on my California king-sized bed.
When I last looked into the rear-view,
there was a pile of Keds spinning
at the speed of light on a rusted Merry Go Round.
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