Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Written at Revista

The Botanical Garden

I found the pure garden as I was awake.

The Staad Antwerp -- Who knows if that is it's proper name? It was printed on the benches.

The male statue rising from the ground got me thinking that my life in the states may be over.

The Dutch speaking botanist plucked a green leaf and said, "Citron," as he handed it to me.

After he left I inhaled it's aroma and thought -- there will be a day when I own a Citron plant.

Lilly pads dotted with mauve flowers coast. Fishes - White - Orange & Gray. They quizzically stare. "I'm sorry, I don't have food for you."

The accordion player has followed me here. I wonder why. At the last locale my only form of payment was starring San pause for twenty-three minutes. The number of my fleeting age.

The fishes are calling. The same Dutch speaking Botanist offered me a look see in the sealed-up green house. This face tends to behave as a key.

When I was all in, he locked the door behind us. It was hot in that cacti green house.

I walked to the far end of a round table, placing a boundary between us.

He motioned to another locked room, one that traveled further into shady greenery.

Since I had gotten this far without being handled roughly, I thought it best to go back out where witnesses sat with their books.

Did I mention he has a scar? It started at his left nostril and completed it's path at the left ear. Precise facial scars are appealing when they aren't behind locked doors.

Back outside the citron gave me ideas on where to go next. Where to live for the next six years. The trickle of the pond sealed my fate.

We, my home and I will always be under the selfsame sky - Antwerp you are my Paris.

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