Monday, April 18, 2011


A boy called Fish, son of a cowboy, son of the beach.

Grown at the real Jersey Shore, found in the mountains.

Changed to Lawrence, “crowned with laurels”, raised

by Bewicks, emphasis on Be, in England, Buick-like the car.

L.L. Cool or Larry squared, double L like Llama they said.

Dreamt of drama, plays, scripts, a call from Hollywood.

In school since 1972, ‘cause he likes a place called school.

Honored to be working with the gifted and talented ones.

Works all year, thinking of his escape for a few weeks to

coastal Carolina, the hills of Tennessee, the streets of DC.

The Jeep knows the highways and all points South, just as

it finds the soccer fields on the weekends with his son.

One morning, crossing The Victory Bridge, he figured out

finally what it’s all about- family, good meals, good drinks,

great books, quiet times. Now he works toward his dream

of finding his book of poetry on the bookshelves of all the

bookstores across the country, before the books disappear,

before stores close, before the words all float in cyberspace.

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