In Which My BrotherMan Visits A Humidor Hoedown

He travels west to see his girlie, and

Along his route there is a strange truck stop

In Rock Springs, not what I would call the land

Of civilized pursuits, but one can shop

Therein for something that I love most true.

This photo shows its glory, for within

There lies a walk-in humidor! I knew

He'd have to check it out, for he has been

A-telling me about it for, oh, weeks!

He's not quite a cigar man, though, just yet,

So as I bought my fennel and my leeks

(It's for a pie), I knew that I would get

A cell phone call, requesting a consult.

Connecticut, I said, as a result.

In Which I Thank My Medicine Men

It takes strange tools to patch a torn-up heart,
Takes songs and tales and poetry and play.
Comes time for me to thank those who, in part
Have made or done the things which, I may say,
Have proven the best medicine for me.
Phil Rossi wrote a song that e'en before
The hardest blow came down did help me see
A light at tunnel's end. And there is more:
For Jeremy Shipp's novel did a lot,
As did a poem by Gregory Wright
He wrote just for me, to tell me I'm not
Alone, not even in the darkest night.
Thanks too, to my White Rabbit and John Ladd:
Chess therapy is good, too, when I'm sad.