The Distant Shore of a Newsstand

I need to feel

the underfoot sand,

ocean’s silent partner,

waiting for the wind

like a setter at the door 

which will send me back to

the Hollis train station 

at the arpeggio of dusk,

clinging to my mother’s

summer-shy,

Coppertoned legs,

breath held,

ready for my father

to suddenly appear

with a weary fedora smile

a briefcase full

of dandelion dreams

and comic books—

collected like oysters

from the distant shore

of a newsstand—

my first instruction manuals

on how to fly.

Tonight, 

all these memories later

I need to watch

the Slow Gin Fizz spin

of a Bill Evans record,

its notes landing

like the light splash

of hand-slapped cologne

hours before I trace

the lower landscape of her back

and say,

with more tenderness

than my heart can bear,

how lucky we are

to share the moon.