wet dog

when i visited milford avenue,
An E. Rip’s housed with trinkets of yesterday,
i vandalized her collections...
investigated the dust,
the books,
the colored markers and her poetic notes.

The Hynka way is in every moment,
see opportunities
capture time like a snap shot
with reflective gifts and a glass of wine.

i miss her at times,
but sing her songs through purple, yellow and green
notes

all we have are memories.

when i was a boy,
i one book
and everytime i arrived, i’d read it -- biting a lip --
that Charles Schultz ‘happiness is a wet dog’ collection.

dang. such a dumb card in the catalog of life, out of nowhere
on the tip of a brain-dead tongue. i wonder, will this poem ever
get anywhere? i don’t think so....does it matter?

happiness is this poem
dry and written tonight.