At the AIDS Memorial.

On the stone benches:

A little girl longs to play in the fountain.

A man with a dog on a leash reads a book.

A dog sits.

.

At the AIDS Memorial,

The words of Whitman circle the flat fountain

As it pours libations and tears.

I remember bringing a small spaniel into the wards of a hospital no longer there.

I weep and pour libations onto pages.

Journeying into the past and future,

Until I arrive at the present.

.

Here is good.