I make the left into the old neighborhood. The houses all look the same
some with new doors or driveways, and some with new windows and
roofing yet there is something different on this visit to where you and
I last called home.
And in this place where I grew up and watched as the two of you departed
there is something different.
And in this place where I once knew the names of everyone I realize I know
And as I drive the neighborhood past your old home, past the old ball fields
that are now overgrown.
And as I look out upon the greenbelt and the woods of Frosty Hollow the
once familiar is unfamiliar.
And in this place that memories live inside of me I know for the first time
I am not from here anymore.
In Rhythm with You
You share the good news of a
another heart moving rhythmically
with yours. You now nurturing
the small life within.
Pulsating, the inaudible drum beat
of thump, thump, throb, of this
new life, this new generation.
In this time of jubilation I watch
radiant faces of you and your
husband, cheerful eyes, knowing
glances, soft touches.
For every poet remembered
a million dead poets are forgotten
and for those who desire fame
name the last ten Vice-Presidents
fame is not fame at all.
A man full of cracks and flaws sits
on a black bench under colorless sky
next to dim light counting his fingers
to make sure they are there.
Buses run over trolley tracks abandoned
in macadam where horses once trotted
cars speed in running lanes. Buildings
rise and fall and for each of the wealthy
there are thousands who eat dust.
In the camp gray walls on dirt floor he sits
silent repose, studies light that bleeds
between cracks in cinderblock walls. His
body blends into the dirt floor, dreams
gone astray, hope vanquished. Broken
Foundations rot in the pastures of the farm
periwinkle, clubmoss, fern and carpets of
clover cover trails and roads, ivy climbs over
and up dead stumps of poplar, birch. sycamore.
Crumbling schist scattered on ground.