Wedding After Party

a last pocket of survivors

in a quiet world

we lift our glasses,

toast the happy couple

3 a.m. on empty roads

that glisten and smell like spring

traffic lights click away

and do their color dance

for random strangers

we stagger and sway

chatter for the newlyweds

having their wedding night

a friend throws money

into our new used truck

to bring us children

and a bit of luck

we climb in

and drive

to the next adventure

From the Hudson Line

Chatty girls

run dialogue

through the miles

—puke stories

and mistaken texts,

who is where

and Spanish wraps.

Trackside

the mounds of rubble

are overgrown,

ghosts of labor

years ago,

dreams and hard work

now unknown.

Grind of history

merciless still,

but we power through

with power and will.

Willis Cemetery

The cemetery

carved out of the White Mountains

has room for more

who are strong enough

to stay

Hopeful sightings of youth

among the hard old timers:

rays of light

between the shuttered homes.

Here our nation

still lives.

Here the spirits

of old settlers

make our sleek city lives

look small.

At Kerouac’s Grave

surrounded by death

and crumbling Lowell

but we’re ready

to embrace it all

to love America

like the mad poets

of ti Jean’s dreams

we shake our white-knuckle fists

at the frowning gawkers

at the indifferent universe

at the cold stars

from our smoldering Earth

we laugh again

refueled in our crazed minds

ready to live harder

and burn in ethereal magic light

across the face of the world