i was thinking about writing about it, sometime, maybe never

picasso was in the corner bent over playing a guitar
the wallpaper, a muted cadet blue
sitting beside him was camus- trying
to talk to a stranger

standing, while ordering
a drink, something called a 'sidecar'
was that woman from madrid
all dressed in red with no itinerary

beyond her divorced mid life crisis
she decided to make a go at sailing
across the pond we refer to as the atlantic
trust has much to do with how good

a sailor would be out on the wild open sea
but i am diverging some more from the parted
fruit wood tree that stands hip high in the center
of the yard, local birds swoop down to peck

at berries that dropped after the thunderstorm
by dawn, they are sleeping in- only stirred
by the beginnings of long tapered fingers
incised in the shadows of our sun's light

making huge triangles of crimson
between the eves and the highest red brick
colors dazzling, reds become more rouge
"roja roja roja" a voice sings from the rooftop

so close to dawn's first fingered whisp of light
hugging tight the wind fierce from the north
how a mama bear fiercely loves her cubs
sending them up the tree when she has decided

to herself, to be more free- a lesson in
independence goes over like a lead
balloon beckoning another day to try
again the gentle releasing of the apron

strings, so early in the morning
the coffee and garbage truck squeaks
out another blues tune- with a fragrance
to be stored in memory banks for another

twenty years-it appears we are here
to breathe the freshest of oxygen
imported from another century-
perhaps the 11th- replete with brass

coins, high victorian collars, handsome large
porches, wrapping around the dark grey home
how remembering past lives was noticed
in that tarot reading, felt in the breast bone-

carried through the matrilineal line
no lay overs, we're going straight
to our birthplace, with nary a resentment

~kate lamberg (c) '16

google image (c) '15