in memory of sp

Now the smith's shop
has up and closed
but that won't stop
my sniffling
apprentice nose
making steam clouds
pressed up against
the frosted glass,

peering past
the threshold

where it's warm
and mouth-watering
as a bakery
in there,

and look-- what a world
of wonders left behind
for the rest of us
to share! :

platinum protractors
spinning
like gyroscopes
on spider strings,

charcoal frescoes
of floppy-eared bunnies
woven into the walls,

and the player piano
on a redwood riser
specially-calibrated
to pump ragtime
through the pedals
whenever the Amazing
Drinking Bird dips its beak
into the blueberry
brandy decanter.

But it's the calliope chimes
from the grandfather clock
in the corner

that really sing to me:

they say
you must indeed be
very busy already
hanging out your shingle
on the other side,

and sure enough I can
just about see you there
squinting at the bubble
on the level,

checking and re-checking
your work,

sucking on the tapered ends
of that handlebar mustache
when finally satisfied
that it's all straight
and true.

In fact
if I press my ear
tight to the keyhole
I might even be able
to hear you--

that voice, oh the
mirth and the wisdom
and the innocence in it--

saying:

"come in! come in!... i only
have a minute but please
sit down with me
and meantime maybe
we'll have some peppermint tea!"