Remembering Gypsy

Memories;

sitting at the kitchen table

with the Philosopher King,

that old, exiled gypsy...

I know you say that you are not photogenic

but your smile,

the way your eyes smile

in that sad way, fruit dying on the vine way.

Picturesque.

Smoking your cigarettes with the right hand

then the left hand

and afterwards the right again.

You would speak to the children

gathered around, sitting at your feet.

Words, 
words that were more than strings of thought.

Tribal spells from an age that will never come again,

the heart’s metal forged with unfiltered spirit

and brought forth imperfect, but perfectly fragile.

Those words would take shape, forming structures inside of us,

solid foundations,

to withstand the ravages of time and disappointment.