Time To Remember Iv Poem by Morgan Michaels

They sped along the Park, past the museum with its twin bronze lions. Donnie shivered with pleasure at the sight. He wanted to see La Grande Jatte, and the works of Grant Wood, who never married. Wood, he thought, was a greater painter than Bellows, who had. Such was life. He also wanted to see 'Nighthawks'.

The cab stopped at the door of the spare, cheap motel and they got out. Cautiously, they carried their bags across the wet floor to the elevator, which carried them to their room. There, they emptied their suitcases into drawers. Gruffly, Ronnie explained to Donnie the workings of the remote, as if he were a dolt, and Donnie was soon stretched out on the bed watching the dismal news, his head flexed forward on the pillow. Each station gave the recit with fresh szouris, the daily tragedy inescapable.

'Why do people watch this', he wondered, puzzled at the simplistic accounts of complex, world events.

His eyes began to close, for he'd slept little on the train. He wished his brother a bit less ornery, but doubted he'd change. In exchange for teaching him TV, Donnie paid all his bills, over the next few days, because Ronnie was broke. Wisely, his brother brought his own bottle of Johnny Walker, thereby managing to reduce his bar tab. Donnie became used to his grumpiness and ingratitude, and philosophically shrugged off his slurs. It was unfortunate. He hoped the trip would somehow be recalled as 'quality time', their business despite. Neither of them was getting younger.

'But', he reasoned, 'it would be only a few days'.