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.