| Work of Art
Art, you were quite a work
Where do you hang thirteen years on?
Tracks of your synapses on paper. . .
And a laugh or two that still echo
Or erupt anew, as memory tries to throw off
You bought me those records
Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, even Schoenberg
And now you are a record
That plays with skips and pops
on an antique stereo
Well, what the hell, I'll crank it up
and Wagner, too
and raise a toast to your old you.