Taxi Nights

It's the thing I miss the most about climbing into an empty cab with you on a cold winter's night, opening the zipper of my jacket as the warmth of the taxi loosens the chilly grip on my hands.

Our heads and hearts were always so full of music, and for some reason that I never understood you didn't care when I leaned on my cane like some old cripple, holding onto your shoulder like an anchor to keep me from falling.

You took a sip of my water, smoothed your skirt over your knees. Damn, I wish I could be half so holy. Even Will Shakespeare understands you.

And we saw the bat fly over in the dark, and we nodded to each other. Flesh trapped in the membranes of wings, until we let it go.

And who knows any more than this? You with your wings nailed to the scoreboard?

The Difference

Ghosts are beautiful, the gorgeous reflections of what happened whenever it was most important to them, not to us. They showed themselves in lace and crinolines. They showed themselves in tuxedos and micro-skirts. They showed themselves in their best, as they saw it. They showed themselves with hands making crosses over their breasts. They showed themselves kneeling before desert gods.

It doesn't matter, they are all still beautiful. The only one who is ugly is the one who doesn't know, or worse yet, who tries to hide it.

Rockaway Beach

The last time I walked on Rockaway Beach was  thirty-something years ago, the sand warm between my toes on a warm Memorial Day night and my fiancée's hand in my own. Her sister was with us, and we all watched the night sky for meteors and comets.

What we saw was moonlight on the water, shining on the sand sculpture my friend Lily was making on the dunes. She and I knew what it meant, but that was our secret.

Jill looked at us and we made some hot air excuse, I think we fooled her. But not us. "As her face at once just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale."

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?