Frances McCue

NaPoWriMo #20
April 21, 2013, 9:55 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

Letter To The Woodworker and The Poet While We are Together in Portland

Dear Wendy and Paulann:
Nothing could change Portland, not herds of hipsters on scooters or pods
Of food trucks; not the realtors who hold clipboards and make lists of people
Who want to see the old, ordinary houses; not the painters who show up
With heaps of canvases and ideas for galleries. Not our old Portland, the one
Where you grew up Paulann, and the place you came to, Wendy, the Portland
That slowed me down every time I came here, the city where we lolled about
In the little Victorian after ransacking Powell’s, where we screamed about
The outrages in poetry-land and carried on all night. Now I’m writing you from
Inside your Rose City, tucked under Mount Tabor, in the little yellow house. Some
Places are made by friends. God knows, the world is strung together on suffering so the sane locations are consoling: the Aladdin Theater or the Leipszig Tavern,
The thrift stores along Hawthorne, the dining room in Sellwood where my little
Maddy had a balloon tied to her wrist and learned to walk by going around and Around while we drank and laughed and read poems. Oh Poet Laureate of Oregon, Oh Woodworker of tables, steps, clocks and shelves– Such sanity, the makings of art.
Love, Franny


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