Laura. Bracing for storms coming our
way. The first one sort of fizzled out;
second one did not. Waiting for Laura.
I’ve been singing that schmaltzy ballad
from the 1944 movie of the same name
since last night. Whatever happened to
my mother’s copy of Vanity Fair, I’ll
never know. I remember the picture of
Gene Tierney in it and Gary Cooper in
1934. It was a favorite book of mine as
a kid. Laura was a favorite, too. Still is.
One of the few good memories. But
this poem can only end or begin with
one word. Laura. “Laura is the face in
the misty light…”