Just Kids

there is a steady hand
adept in heavens skin
spending into black
where pure hearts
are kin.

^{The Hotel Chelsea}

^{Nathan’s Coney Island}

^{Target/Letter, Paris 7.7.69}

^Postcard

^{Robert’s Last Camera}

WILD LEAVES

Wild leaves are falling
Falling to the ground
Every leaf a moment
A light upon the crown
That we’ll all be wearing
In a time unbound
And wild leaves are falling
Falling to the ground

Every word that’s spoken
Every word decreed
Every spell that’s broken
Every golden deed
All the parts we’re playing
Binding as the reed
And wild leaves are falling
Wild wild leaves

The spirits that are mentioned
The myths that have been shorn
Everything we’ve been through
And the colors worn
Every chasm entered
Every story wound
And wild leaves are falling
Falling to the ground

As the campfire’s burning
As the fire ignites
All the moments turning
In the stormy bright
Well enough the churning
Well enough believe
The coming and the going
Wild wild leaves

^{View from the window of the Hotel Chelsea, Room 204}

THE DESK

In all the world one may always hope to recapture something lost. But sometimes we are obliged to set the memory of certain things in a dresser of small regrets. Yet occasionally we discover in the folds of an old handkerchief a shell or insignificant stone that had once embodied our happiest of afternoons. We experience a moment of respite when all sense of bad luck vanishes. As when the corrected proofs of Finnegans Wake, left on a backseat within a maze of taxicabs, were magically returned to the hands of an astonished and grateful James Joyce.

In mid-July, as I was assembling these pages, I received a message from my friend the photographer Lynn Goldsmith. She had met a young girl of fifteen named Delilah, who read my book and had given it to her mother to read. Her mother told her that years ago, after the birth of her first child, she took a trip with him on the Concord. Robert was sitting next to her and had a loving connection with the infant. This did not surprise me, as Robert was always tender and caring with children.

When Robert passed away, remembering his kindness, Delilah’s mother obtained his desk at auction. Lynn assured me that if it was the desk that I had written of, that it was in good hands. When I opened the attachment I burst into tears. It was indeed his desk, as glowing as I remembered.

Seeing the photograph of Delilah, working so diligently, as I had dreamed I might, filled me with great happiness. I used to close my eyes and picture Robert showing it to me, saying, I thought of you when I got it because you always loved desks. Now I am at peace. I imagine Delilah writing at the desk, perhaps stopping for a moment, to give us both a good thought.

^{Robert, 1979}

^Poem

^{MacDougal Street, 1974}

Acknowledgments

Before Robert died, I promised him that I would one day write our story. I wish to extend my deep appreciation to Betsy Lerner and all who have encouraged and assisted me in keeping my promise.

Lenny Kaye Rosemary Carroll Daniel Halpern Edward Mapplethorpe Sharon Delano Judy Linn Andi Ostrowe Oliver Ray Nancy M. Rooney Janet Hamill David Croland Abigail Holstein Lynn Davis Steven Sebring Linda Smith Bianucci Renaud Donnedieu de Vabres and Jesse Paris Smith