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

Assessing critically.


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.