A MEMORIAL DAY POEM 
			FOR THREE PHILOSOPHERS 

				
			Plato, the philosopher 
			of perfect forms,
			dines on a Classical pear. 

			Socrates prefers his coffee
			black. 

			While Aristotle stuffs 
			his sandwich with infinite zeros
			recently harvested.

			The three philosophers have 
			been something of a mania 
			to students 
			for the past several hundred years.

			Though considerably slower, 
			still , an invasion of sorts, 
			not unlike that of the Beatles' 
			which freed the bourgeoisie 
			from doing hard time 
			with surfboards and Corvettes.

			The three philosophers 
			seem to be enjoying
			their hard won popularity 
			They've been seen recently 
			down at the Full Moon Saloon
			in Baltimore, 
			soaking up the blues 
			and trading shots of mezcal. 

			They've turned the place 
			into a perpetual party room 
			for Ph.D  candidates,
			and even allow the occasional poet 
			to visit (day time only).

			Next Friday, they're off to Paris, 
			then on to London
			and Amsterdam.

			It's been several hundred years 
			since any of them has written an interesting treatise.

			In fact, nowadays , 
			with the three philosophers 
			shrouded in a plethora
			of web site commercials 
			and beer sponsorships, 
			no one even seems to remember.

						***

					ARCTIC SPRING 

					A church bell with arthritis
					rings  at the edge  
					of our neighborhood. 

					On our misty patio, 
					propane tanks
					like Buddhas, 
					or penguins
					in the arctic spring.

					Go ahead, breathe.

					The bell's tongue
					is hungry 
					stumbling 
					past our house 
					looking for dogs
					and small children. 

						***

					LATE SPRING 

					Midnight porch light 
					casts a web 	
					across the yard.

					Sirens, like moths, 
					vibrate the web's silk strands . 

					The night's pulse 
					is a screech owl 
					with a scalpel
					and a cognac.

										Alan Britt