Dennis Hollingsworth

Gibbous

Outside the bar on Chrystie we sat last evening, Henry and I. A cozy bar. A cigarette together. I looked up to the moon, framed by the tree line of Roosevelt Park, a very nice NYC/LES evening. A big gibbous moon, just so. For a moment, I flashed on this icon of a sight, big-moon-city-sky, once the very instance of naive art, and now so ubiquitous in the galleries. The stigma no longer applies, in the emergent generation of artists.

Heart on the sleeve.

Or is it "heart"?

All this in a flash, in a moment. So much to chew over. Then Henry says, plopping, "Looks like it lost its' hat". A big smile as always, this one with a twinkle. Henry adorned with a short exposition, impossible to recall in detail exactly. Wish I could. He sung it, almost. It was a mixed stream of how did it lose his hat and he's got to get into the shop and buy another one and how he had to buy a felt one like he had.

Boy, Mr. Moon needs his hat.

I looked down to Henry's hat, sitting on a chair. Purple felt, barely a brim, a combination of Gandalf and top hat, stovepiping up to a little dome, a red inner band tied with yellow string at its ends together with a neat bow knot.