I am reading “Up in the Old Hotel,” and I understand why I live in this city a bit more.
I’m making dinner so I’ll write a poem called
My boyfriend’s parsley
My boyfriend has a beard made of parsley
I pick a sprig at breakfast to put in with the eggs,
I pick a sprig when I leave the house, put it in between my lips and walk down the street like I’m a hobo girl who’s best friend is Tom Sawyer.
In the summer it wilts,
And in the fall it turns the color of maple leaves, red, orange, spicy,
like Eric the Red.
But winter’s done and spring is coming.
His parsley beard is growing full and bushy.
It’s time to make pasta
(joan liftin) and a story called:
I must think suddenly of matters too difficult for a bear of little brain. I have never asked myself what lies beyond the place where we live, I and Rabbit, Piglet and Eeyore, with our friend Christopher Robin. That is, we continued to live here, and nothing changed, and I just ate my little something. Only Christopher Robin left for a moment.
Owl says that immediately beyond our garden Time begins, and that it is an awfully deep well. If you fall in it, you go down and down, very quickly, and no one knows what happens to you next. I was a bit worried about Christopher Robin falling in, but he came back and then I asked him about the well. ‘Old bear,’ he answered. ‘I was in it and I was falling and I was changing as I fell. My legs became long, I was a big person, I grew old, hunched, and I walked with a cane, and then I died. It was probably just a dream, it was quite unreal. The only real thing was you, old bear, and our shared fun. Now I won’t go anywhere, even if I’m called in for an afternoon snack.’