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“Songs are a lot like stories,” he’d recently told me.
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On the porch beside the banyan trees, Australian pine, palms, hibiscus, your son recites the Gettysburgh Address. It is Thanksgiving on Anna Maria Island and your family, parents, and sister's family sit before their vanquished plates.
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His face, serious, the edge of your twelve-year-old head just off to the side, amputated for the obit.
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Once upon a time in the days of old
There lived a poor tailor who- I am told-
Did brag that his daughter
Spun straw into gold!
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“Tell me a story,” he said, toying with his top hat, running his fingers along its brim.
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We all tell them/even when our mothers
warned us only the Devil/tells stories
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153365
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What doesn't kill you gives you great material.
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Lucky for mama, he doesn't like for his women to work.
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