IMPROVISATION #63
AFTERWARD AN AFTER WORD

Sitting around
the parlor table
with its crystal bowls
of unveiled fruit
looking like a Cezanne
as sunlight slips away
from Commonwealth Ave.
by an effaced portraits
of Whistler and Proust
at the open window
of passing strips of sky
daubed with pink
watching a shadow of ships
in Boston harbor
among a frozen January
afternoon, disclosing
catching the striking voice
of Grandpa Mendes,
"Life is not poetry
but prose."