Daryl has a feature called Tell Me A Story, in which she posts one of her photographs and asks her readers to tell her a story about it. Here is this week's picture, and my scene spun from it:
Rider #2: Oh man! The merging of reality with unreality and the presentation of familiar forms in bizarre and distorted shapes just makes me think, you know, Ed?
Rider #1: I'm with ya on that, buddy.
Rider #2: So how's your son? You said he was going through some sort of Chagall phase...
Rider 1: Aw, he's doin' great. We went down to MOMA last weekend. A buddy of mine had tickets, so we went.
Rider #2: How was it?
Rider #1: My man, the surrealists totally kicked ass, but the critic blew the call.
Rider #2: You're shittin' me.
Rider #1: If I'm lyin' I'm dyin', amigo.
Rider #2: Wow. So Ed man, did you catch the game last night?
Rider #1: Game?
Rider #2: Yeah, the baseball game.
Rider #1: Sometimes you worry me. Why would I watch a baseball game?
Rider #2: Aw I dunno, Ed. Forget it. It's just...the wife likes it, so we...never mind.
Rider #1: (shakes head)
Rider #2: (clears throat, pedals harder) So Ed man, how about those post-modernists?
Rider #1: My man!!! (both riders reach across and high five.) I'm all over that shit!
Rider #2: Dude!
Rider #1: Dude!
And, as promised, a new poem:
All girls are gypsies in their hearts;
They have wood smoke in their hair,
Soft boots on their feet,
And can spot a black cat or an easy mark from a mile away.
Gypsy girls all wear bright red and burnished gold;
From the womb, they can dance
In lazy turns like an old country road,
And they can fix a wagon wheel if the men are too drunk to do it.
When I look at a fence,
I can only see the broken spot that might be slipped through;
And when I lay out the cards, or stare into the scrying crystal,
All I see is you...you...you.
All girls are gypsies, carrying chocolates and well-sharpened silver blades;
We toss our hair and smile, then disappear down a dusty road under hanging trees.
And what will you do then? And what will I?
When with our different bands we have gone, and there is nothing but the turning wheels, the wicks of the lamps, and the memory of each other's
Painting: "Gypsy Girl Kate" by Fran J. Scott.