he loved the scene beneath the weeping willow tree
where the bass would jump and the sun would set with fire at dusk.
he dreamed of lovers taking it in and weddings in the grass.
gio paulinatti was a simple man.
he drove slow on the back roads, never missing a hidden inlet
or a forested hutch hiding in the greens.
he welcomed the sounds of the wind and the birds riding it's back.
gio paulinatti went to heaven.
he heard buddah and ghandi trading punchlines.
the ironic roar of laughter about all their misguided days.
he smelled the cigar smoke as he heard a voice ask him what he thought.
he replied he didn't like it.
it was too white. too quiet. this can't be heaven.
there's no weeping willow or jumping bass.
there's no smiling children or coffee in the field.
there's no gentleman passing by on his motorcycle ride.
he said he wanted to go back.
in a plume of smoke, he heard more laughter at the unheard of request.
the voice told him he'd give him more time but not to screw it up.
gio paulinatti is my friend.
i took him driving today and we sat beneath the willow and hunted for hidden glens.
he smiled at children playing and mingled with the fish.
he waved at the man on his motor bike and gave me a toothy grin.
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