I see Gerry now, blue hooded sweatshirt, ball cap, blue pants. Rockafella, he calls me (and everybody else).

Shallow draft, a whisker between her keel and sandy flat, Softly she slides over a thousand, steamer holes, Eel grass tickles the sweet, clear grain, shaped to steer and keep this cat on course.

Jimmy always reminded me of Peter O’Toole charging through the desert on a camel Long lion mane flowing.

Before the daylight/hints its slow return/on death bed winter nights as/brutal gusts spit flakes/upon the sheets/

Be good to/gab again/down on the pier/You could ride old Fergi/through the slurry mist/that spreads like/cotton sheets

Not that long ago We walked up On that stage June light shafting Down through the Tabernacle’s multi colored Stained glass rows