Sonnet: Amnesiac
Back in the late ’40s, or maybe it was the early ’50s,
I found myself in Paris, seeking a valid expiration
date, or maybe to sell cars to Francis Picabia. I tried
to remember that you didn’t know much about him
and his paintings, or about me for that matter, but all
we could agree to call to mind were those damned
Horse Spirits by Baiocco. In those days, I was still
a teenager, as, you know, I am today, my palm
still warm from the grasp of Eisenhower’s hand
during a Yonkers stop on his presidential run. His
ungloved hand slipped into mine like the promise
of some kind of future, Paris not far from our minds.
Butane lighters had not come along then, and three
on a match was quite enough to get someone killed.
Hal
Halvard Johnson
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