There’s No Hope But I May Be Wrong

The Fox Version

“The Fox Hunt,” Winslow Homer, 1893, as seen at The Met, May 2022

Remember that time we went to Wallenport Beach, because you told me there was a mountain of beach glass?

—And that we could glean it, and we’d make such a bundle?

I had visions of sitting with you on Drake Avenue, busking on the warm sidewalk (alright, hot pavement) with a little hippie carpet of beach-glass jewelry set before us, artfully wrapped in wire, or twine, or whatever else you had stored in your backpack.

“Dragon glass for sale!” You’d make up a song on the spot.

I loved busking with you, because it never felt like begging, or even selling. It felt like, Oh, What a Beautiful Morning! was exactly what any normal person would be duetting in front of Chuy’s Tacos or Uncle Marin’s Antiques. I didn’t notice if anyone tossed money in our fine velvet hats, or not. I was in love with you, and you were mine.

After you left, I only sang downtown once. Pete Seeger died. It was a psychic emergency, and I didn’t even let mysel…