An old ode to an old friend

where the showing up would happen


MIKLAS
(in Sapphic stanza)

Once, for instance, shaved like a monk, you showed up
Wearing painted sneakers and jeans. Your artwork
Was a model of ardor: I remember
Pens of yours running

Out of ink, not due to your scholarly zeal,
But because your trousers were saturated
With it. Sometimes, out of your blue, you took to
Rolling on cobble,

Adding new hues: purple from mixing blood with
Blue already present. An otherwise drab
Vindobona public Gymnasium gained
Dash on your easel.

Sewers were your forts, and at times I joined you
Under Amadeus' deathday city's streets,
Trudging through those soggy canals against the
Laws of our fathers.

Seven years I spent on the teeter-totter
Keeping you in balance with canon’s children;
Seven years I lived as the liaison be-
Tween you and Normal.

Now that I’ve been gone for a weighty eight years,
Has the seesaw tilted you up or down, friend?
Either way, your paints must have spilled, my poor boy
Miklas, my Vincent.

.