We should be crying all the time.
On our car hoods crying over here,
all the time, amazed we aren't.
We should be laughing all the time,
opening the mattress for the cash, getting ready for the border,
the nearest one, with a real dry eye.
You had the glasses, Roy. The light opera. You had the too-black hair
and strange luck, to give us those falsetto dreams.
Today, everywhere I went I wanted to take pictures.
The sun put gold in the cattails and oatgrass
with more authority than I'm comfortable with,
Roy.