That Abomination in the By-Now 20th Century
                   Aesthetic Tradition:
      Meditation on a Wet Snowy Afternoon

I have so much that I am supposed to do
that to sit down in this freshly-painted room,
listening to Beethoven, my own crazy father in time,
and dally around, writing about how happy I am
seems very laggard and un-American.
Besides, what is happiness anyway?
The snow was such a gentle covering on the ground last night
when we came home,
the beauty of city streets with their dirt covered momentarily…
but it is a beauty that is false
because it is gone so soon —

No,
that is the grossest of American sentiments,
Beauty is a moment of snow crystals
when no hand or foot has touched them
when they have not yet melted and carried grime and soot
into standing puddles.
Any instant is still reality.
Beauty.
Who questions its moment?
Yet, I just said it was false because it would not last.
I could destroy our peace together
and the happiness I have just waking up next to you,
by thinking the American way.
And how can I write about such things as happiness & snow?
They seem trivial, foolish and sentimental.
Which probably means
they are
trivial,
foolish,
and sentimental.
But I feel safe here
exploring the maps of your imagination.
Love, 
beauty,
both are the fulfillment of some deep longing,
a sense of completion,
the hand
or the eye.
When I am alone
I realize that you are
for me
Beethoven,
Schubert,
Haydn,
and Bach, those sounds I cannot live without.
You are
that snow covering our late-night street.
You are so different from me,
             a strong man who builds, thinks designs,
             a mechanic and architect,
             an important freeway in my life.
On this snowy afternoon,
I am happy to be in your house and feel
that it is mine too.