A father holds the hand of his only daughter
Sad mother looking on
In eastern Europe before the wars
In the year of our Lord.
It was, in reality,
A futile attempt made all the more princely
By our complete disbelief.
To meet Walt Whitman for the first time dressed
In an ill-fitting black suit
On the way to Sunday mass.
We'd a vague feeling of guilt and dread
A slight hangover from too much talking
The night before.
Mr. Carmichael's four little girls
- Dressed like angels, they were -
Sat in the front of the church.
(They were always so shy)
They asked the youngest, Katrine
Why are you so quiet?
"I keep my own council."
Dry gust of wind through sage.
Genovive, the eldest,
- A bit of a riddle herself -
At the first sign of approaching salesmen
Threw open the door
"You are welcome to Elsinore!"
Bewildering the poor gentlemen with a theater-trained grace.
Seri and Anne were twins,
God bless them,
Their beautiful brown hair always fixed exactly the same.
Coriander stem and violets in their thick braids,
Had an uncommon ability of memory and could read by age of four.
Walt Whitman sat second pew,
Third seat from the left.
The poor man's shirt was loose on his ancient shoulders.