The Distant Shore of the 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.


And tonight, 

all these memories later

I need to watch

the mint julep 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.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Heaven

-
Despite appearances   Heaven may not be  the always present  consciousness that watches over us during  beach hours gray rain city days or any number of man follies like battlefields the electoral college and never being able to find a parking space at Cotsco on weekends. For me Heaven is our private inner movie studio where all that is lost and forever feared is stored in film cans on strips of memory celluloid that we can call up whenever the wars of love  become too much to bear. Silent night pictures flutter by  on the silver screens of  daydreams and nightmares, that feature mostly tales of loss and temptation featuring a cast of  a thousand ghosts who haunt the shadow valley of our hearts until the wee small hours  when the lights come back on and the exit signs are clearly lit. In that still-life morning moment of want and limbo all that remains  is a carousel of  dissolving images  on shredded sprockets  which we w...
Read more

What Must Babies Think?

-
What must babies think, As they wonder why their Push pram rocket ship Which on most days thrusts them Into the universe of the fiery sky ball and chatter filled park Sits mothballed in the corner Staring at the wall like White-haired bench people Who always seem so Sad and forgotten? What must dogs think The Wal Mart greeters of the Animal world Who use the sign language Of the excitable nose and tail To communicate their borderline insane love for anything that moves When they trot out first thing In the morning like they’re in competition at Westminster Only to discover A show of silent concrete? What must jets think Who usually cannibalize people Until their bellies are full When the only in-flight meal Is a flight crew Two pilots And 900 steerage ghosts Who sit Without hope or destiny In the kind of Quiet That follows anyone Who has ever walked Away from a grave? What must birds think The cocky pigeons The Blue-header vireo Or the Y...
Read more

The Memory of the Commute

-
                                                                                                                                                                                                                        My childhood  summertime commute  whose soundtrack was the armistice of morning was a ride aboard a most reassuring breeze the kind that blew kisses to schooners and made our living room curtains dance like the veils of Mata Hari. I wo...
Read more