Remembering Alan Lowe
by George Wallace
Zinc oxide burns his lungs and arc-light his eyes
Deep beneath the Irish Sea.
And so he gives up solitude,
For love and New York City.
British agents question him at JFK
Then decide he is not a bomb maker for the IRA.
INS agents question his marriage. Professional cynicism
Is blown apart by his simple declaration of love.
He is gobstruck by her beauty.
He sighs with adoration.
She is delighted.
“Sea of Love” plays at the edges.
She twirls a lock of his curled hair.
She delights in his sigh of affirmation.
They ride the swells of contentment
Like just-minted mariners.
They both look up
Across the kitchen table
In an exchange of sighs.
“Book of Love” plays at the edges.
He assembles mysterious parts for pay
Acquired through a magazine ad.
She shuffles tile samples - both bath and kitchen
The divorce is final.
Since half of all marriages end in divorce
Must the rest end in misery?
Theirs follows a change in sighs.
Peter Gabriel plays at the edges.
If only love and time were a book,
Thumbing back to when they’re happy
In a happier time.
Now wouldn’t that be something.
Alan, all alone, following her
From town to town.
Not as good as with, but it’s something.
Cast away, all at sea. Then dead alone at forty-three.
Lament for Later
by Dan Wallace
Crying for my children now
who will mourn my passing
more the better I am today.
The sadness after death
to know we’re still around
but cannot tell them it’s true
until they join us, if they do.
by Dan Wallace
When the summer comes
and the sunshine shines,
it’s time to break out
that stheersthucka sthuit
the blue stripes plumping
against the white
in those humid days and nights.
You gotta love those
stheersthucka sthuits as if the
world told you to put one on
in the summertime to lighten up
the way you feel about the way
people feel about you
In your stheersthucka sthuit.