Fortune's CHILD

--August 30, 1996

Now that you’re gone,
I watch myself starting to go,
frantic not to seem old,
embarrassed by my embarrassment.
But sprinting across the street on my morning hike today,
avoiding commuters and highschool drivers,
I knew who I was at last:
“fortune’s child” as you said,
your child,
recklessly happy,
remembering you
still impressed
by pleasure
the week before you died.
Even then
you hadn’t lost
your fool-
hardiness
for fun,
sneaking off,
chauffeured
for a cappuccino
miles from your bed,
for a wheel chair roll
through a farmer’s market,
sniffing tomatoes,
thumping melons,
hungry for turnips,
hot garlic and butter.

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