This morning from the shelf I pulled the book Good Poems, selected and arranged by Garrison Keillor. It is a wonderful compilation that I used to carry with me as I commuted for work and pleasure across Boston via the green line train. I carried the book for its words but also for another reason. Not only am I both calmed and inspired by poetic works, I love books of poetry because of the white space on the page. This beautiful tome has plenty of white space. With such space I needed only to pull a pen from my pocket to jot down errant thoughts. To capture them to view later. If I remembered. Well, I’d forgotten the words written in the margins of this book nearly five years ago. On this bright Sunday morning, I am glad I found them. — CS
August 29, 2007
His name is Herbie. I remember that. I’ve seen him all the years that I’ve lived up here, traveling through Copley Station. A wee black man and his flute. It has been awhile. His hair has grown long and gray, and new lines etch his dark face. His smile has not diminished. He always says, “Hello, sweetie,” or sometimes, “darling.” Though I place no money in his cup, his smile never fades. His smile makes me smile, no matter what ills of the day. He reminds me of simple pleasure. Of greetings.
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Her name I know not. She told me once but I can’t remember. She comes into Trinity on Fridays covered in cloth from head to foot like a Bedouin, except her robes are not blue but many-hued. We both have a gap between our front teeth. She says it is due to our British ancestry. She likes my smile. She says all of me, my whole being, smiles when I do. I told her she gives me reason.
Words + Images 
