The National Gallery

We finally reach the lions.

My chelsea boots, wet. 

Your clear eyes, blue

We are longtime friends.

We swivel inside with varying degrees of elegance. 

I stare at the big horse painting. 

When you make me laugh, I remember 

fresh morning mists. 

Re-membering is
Shakespearian but

the thing is - Sweets -
that no one reads Hamlet anymore.

*