READING VILLON

Reading Villon
in the open streets
amid the chattering classes
reading their news on line,
an orange kayak resurfaces
from its tightly knotted anchor
protected from the winds
by the seas home harbor
and an unusually friendly jay
even brushes off from us
on the last sponge cake of snow
over the salty water docks.

It is the last day
of crazy March
where four harsh months
of a freezing troubled repast
as a red cardinal
addresses me in blank verse
my second hand bicycle
passes by the welcome wagon
by river beds
near the first tourist ship.

We begin to realize
time and images are only
for this last March day
with my gloomy sunglasses
at a bygone season
with our rapid astonishment
at a foursome playing bocce
on the white beach sand.

Watching the ice fishing
on a breathing barge
of a shining eternity
in the weathered thoughts
of every third rate philosopher
drinking in the local pub
as a smooth jazz guy
hunts for some sun
all winter
who still falls for the love
of a once soap opera star
clenching her hand
now out of luck for the lottery
he wanders alone
like Villon
raising his riverbed eyelids
into a celestial spot at first light
when oysters appear again
on the blue plate special
of the fish shack bar
every Thursday.