LIST

The taxi owner's mother
Denise Davis in high school art class
never my father, not, at least, until the last day of his life
And three short paintings after his death, while Buddy
     called our prepared list of family and friends
never my mother either, except from a small photo I once
     carried in my wallet, and again as a gift to
     her youngest son.
My college roommate while he played guitar
The great David Byley while he played guitar
Eva Jones, our family maid, my confidant
A man I met on a plane.  He was old, verbal, funny,
     learned and prodigious in his affections.  A 
     cattle veterinarian, Oklahoma, started life Hebrew
     in Brooklyn.
My grandfather.
My grandfather's employee friend, Jonas Harris.  It was a
     complicated relationship, which is a whole chapter in
     itself.
Numerous acquaintances whose names I can no longer
     recall, nor their faces except from the remaining painting.
Like the guy who sailed his boat alone from California to Hawaii
Or the beautiful Mexican bride, or the young Mexican child
     who posed against the ancient wall.
Buddy, how many times.  Six, seven, eight.
Bob Dunne, typing his dissertation.
Crane Stookey desiring to be seen as serene
Charity
Joyce, a dozen times at least
If I could count them all, how many would there be?

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