Buc-ee’s at 3 a.m.

 

We relent
to the lure of adventures
under blue night sky,
indulge
in the gluttony
of a pre-dawn brisket sandwich
 
and stay loyal to this,
our tired-wired spontaneous
highway survival pact
 
communing
with the fellow travelers here:
awake,
embracing the world of flesh and fluorescent lights,
soaking in
this brief comfort,
respite
from the cruel asphalt
and nonstop drive
 
outside,
standing on stained pavement,
pontificating in
half-lucid lateness chatter
before the pagan idol
of a bronze beaver,
 
we dine like kings
and feel alive.

Drummer in Madison Square Park

tapping

to an endless dialogue

to no one at all

spattered

with brilliant rolls

percussion concussion

to make the doldrums die

walking the park to mark

the tail end of summer

joy in the sunshine

as the city

hustles

one stolen afternoon

at a time

At Forest Hills

feel the ghost rain

on the early evening

carried

on the bleacher seat breeze

secret smokes

—a one-hitter pulled from a bra

private celebrations

thousands of times over

as each chord

strikes its own symphony

May we age gracefully

with fire and noise.

May we all breathe in

the blue sultry night

and feast on May twilight

until we die. 

Rockport at Night

another youth climbs the tree

this one a barefoot girl

—the cop chased away a boy

as a teenage girl

sings, sings at piano

for a small crowd

people take it upon themselves

to light the paper lanterns

that glow our way through the breezy night

the dark beckons everyone

to the beaches

lawn chairs jockey for space

to spy the fireworks

Lobster Fest has wound down,

dusk shrouds the folded tables and chairs

as visitors mingle and float away

praying they come back