one for Joe Mills
In mine, I gaze upward at a REM-state version of that spacy restaurant at LAX,

the disk with a 360-degree diadem of windows, and I’m ascending a staircase

on one elegant, arched white strut curving to the apex of a saucer-shaped suite
suspended beneath the ivory nexus. On the top step, when I ease open the door

of that lofty coastal lookout for the traffic of the air, Snyder is there, watching
television, black and white, solid-state, in a carved mahogany cabinet. The fare

is re-runs of Gilligan’s Island, a show that wasted more than enough of my time
in my teens: Ginger flaming my fantasies and the Professor providing my only

role model beyond an utterly witless sailor and a captain who ran his ship

aground three hours from Hawai‘i, marooning his goofy crew and passengers
for three years of prime time between the Executive Assassination of Youth

and the Summer of Love. Snyder slouches on a couch in the same clothes,
haircut, and youth he wore on the cover of Riprap. My arrival doesn’t divert

his attention. His arms are crossed behind his head. He’s chewing bubble gum.
My eyes drift to the flickering comedy, and my mind floats from the situation

until, amazed at my own ears, I hear myself say, “Oh, here comes the good part.”