Art Farm

I remember you on the Art Farm, in blue
jeans and t-shirt, Tarot in your pocket.
Touring town with you was like a corn beef
sandwich and side of pickle chips, Lonski’s

Deli, Saints Rest on Broad, McNally’s where
I bought several bottles of San Pellegrino.
We laughed on the terrace at the Phoenix
Café, devoured flourless chocolate cake,

jazz wafting from the park as we sipped red
wine in the wildflowers. Still tipsy, we
strolled Grinnell, then trekked north to pluck pears
on the farm.  You told me the story of

its conversion, to a beetle infested
studio where we worked all week─me typing
in an antique yellow chair, you crafting
a card for a friend.  You liked my expression

very satisfying. At least we agreed then.

Laura Sweeney