Alan Gurganis story title snipped from The New Yorker. Yeah, I’m pretty proud of this one. Here’s the accompanying poem:
My Heart is a Snake Farm
for Alan K.
Oh Alan, I’m lying,
and neither is it a lonely hunter,
pit of vipers, thrush,
nor is it buried in Venice.
Maybe it’s a safety friend
like my son-in-law
at the Children’s Museum
in Santa Monica, protecting
those coming close, circling,
and skipping out the door.