Forty-Two Years

I'm not naming names, and I'm not saying where it happened, but on this day in 1974 I had the best first kiss I've ever had, or ever will have. We never stayed together for more than a few months but I still remember your daughter. You told me she was your niece but I never bought that. Why? Did you think I couldn't handle it?
I'm really sorry it ended that way. I hope you're happy, 'cos I am. Peace.

Early In The Morning

One day you wake up

and see you have more dead friends

than live ones. It sucks.

September Is A Friday Night

The sky is dark and empty, no gulls. No foot steps wasted in the Brooklyn night. September asks my business here. When I tell her, "I want to watch the sand smooth out with no human footprints," she asks me, "But won't you miss that?" I probably will, but at least there will probably be some light when I land in the ferry slip on Governor's Island, the cool autumn waves no deeper than the end of my life.

September Again

The sun disappeared again today, a little earlier. The hurricane is coming. Right now it's off  the Outer Banks, throwing water and sand at Kitty Hawk, but it will be here soon enough.

And the salt spray tastes like autumn, and the sunset is shining off the shallow water in the ferry slip on Governor's Island. You could wade there, it's only knee deep. If you don't mind trying to outrun a ferry boat.

Dead soldiers from Vermont meet their friends from Mississippi, they never realized they were friends til  it was way too late. Now the salt water washes through the bullet holes, and the blood is mixed with the salt in Buttermilk Channel.

The bodies are dried out, hauled to the cemetery, laid under stones of blue or grey. Does it matter which?