for Barry Spacks, 1931 – 2014

The rundown, the lowdown, the uptown, downtown,
all around the meltdown, the inside out
way out, this far out, out there wear me out, look:
Now you see me, now you don’t.
I make it all come out so sweet and fine,
like cool night jazz, looking in from my lookout,
a cup of hot coffee, slice of toast, marmalade spread
Thick and dripping like paint from a brush-
stroked canvas hanging on a wall in my music room
somewhere, in there, up where we belong
in all those cities named for poets and other mugs,
The blue grey overhang a sweeping song I sing:
Won’t you tell me where my love can be?
streets, buildings, clapboard dreams along the highway,
whispering sky, shadow sky, speak softly sky
Lark, skylark, have you anything to say to me?
Paul Fericano

February 3, 2014