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Photo by Gail Harvey, no reproduction without permission
How It Isn't How It Isn’t
I have a photograph of you and me
Squished into a playpen
Old-school, wooden: you and me on fire
With the delight of life.
If you ever doubted in your lifetime
That you were loved
The tribal crying might confirm, these twenty years on
You were on fire with life
And warmed us all:
We all know what day it is.
I’m waiting for a friend to bring a new life
To her world
And on this day when we all miss you
I sort of hope that baby comes—
I have excellent luck with wishing
And even better charm when it comes to
Honouring what has created a giant space
And what and who comes to say
“I cannot replace anyone, but I can show you
the celebration is as constant as the pain. That’s life.”
Typing this with a band-aid on
“Bad at everything” of late
I think of you and take a deep breath
Hear your laugh, your “HO ho HO!” and grin
So long ago, yet right here, inside my heart
As loud as a radio broadcast with perfect reception.
I miss you Stan Titus. ALL the time, but most especially, at Christmas.
Reading: To The Is-Land, Janet Frame
Listening to [LOUD]: Civil Twilight, The Weakerthans
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