Life Is Nice Ii Poem by Morgan Michaels

'I keep my membership up. For old times sake'.

'Exactly! So do I', she admitted, clapping once.

It'd been weeks since Donnie heard anything so agreeable from anyone. It was good when like-minded people agreed- if only on the merits of a club.

'It's been a while for me, too. Nothing like the old days'.

Donnie looked at her as if for the first time. She had dark, ginger-tinged hair, shot with rare strands of gray. Her cheek-bones were strong and her mouth was firm. Her eyes had a warm, lively expression. She looked too nice for this neighborhood, though. But, it was changing. Just not fast enough. Her hazel eyes were serious, despite her smile.

'I don't know why I hang onto it. Sentimental, I guess'.

'You should have it framed'.

'Maybe it'll be worth something, someday'.

'Maybe'.

She paused.

'Well, I work at a museum, though it's not true what people say, I AM a museum. I know a bit about valuable old things, though. And I know how things thought worthless once become valuable, in time'.

Donnie ignored this charming piece of self-derogation and continued.

'Oh, yeh? Which'?

'The Modern', she said, a little proudly. 'I curate'.

Donnie thought of Frank O'Hara. A drawer of Abstract Expressionist paintings opened in his head.

'Oh, yeh'?

She read his mind and smiled,

'Yeh. You know, like Frank O'Hara'?

Donnie nodded gravely.

'I've heard of him'.