“Ken! Long time, no see! What’s up, man? What’s new?”

“Back pain is back, old habit, and reckons

the end of the sex need, the beginning

of such apathies as enlightenment.

Middle age: the open window beckons.

In that empty space, beyond my braying

reflection: my calm senescence, winning.

While burning steps give in towers swaying,

burdened yearns the mummy wrapped up in chain.

Man’s first small step through a revolving door…

Surprise! The same lightless, barren moon. Or

is someone there? Hello? Is this the end

of excuses, explanations, back pain?

Tim, who can say? Anyway, how are you?”

Could I have had the sex I didn't? Would

who I kissed in jest I not? Why wash my

hands only to pick my nose? Meaningless

grins puzzle strangers dancing; imbalance

is exposed, flooding last night’s turgid span.

Wry vomit rose: To never see someone 

again, never especially to know 

someone really or to hug whenever 

saying goodbye. At least I scored. We'd tried 

again but felt it foreign as early

inebriation explored... Nostalgia

is a heavy vest, a failure of touch: 

   Tests of human friendship are the domain

   of tomorrow but today, not so much.

Somewhere not very far away at all,

lone tree not frightened; autumn’s calligraphed

display wrings proscriptive wrongs, treats Mommy’s

clotted mood to orchard’s upstate witchcraft,

story of woodsmoke on the breeze. Putt-putt 

city shunned, rows of rain-cloud rentals dealt

for those of Baby’s toes and braided trees. 

Sure beats Daddy’s big idea, to’ve spent

his day off indoors, pickled, slapping “snooze”.

One does choose but doesn't so much pick one

as twist it. Apple choosing. Fill prepaid

bag to splitting seam then stop for ice cream 

and head home; sun sags, stem’s twisting. Backseat,

Daughter’s listing, eyes shut but’s listening.

Right the rowboat; the torpid hoptoad gloats 

   unseen, her hair combed only not to be 

in plain sight, pondside, by the boathouse porch.

   Uncombed, as the old grey mare goes boneless,

snapping tortoise drifts the yellow calm, clouds

   awkwardness in untimely silence. Self

shallows; the quorum of the upturned palms,  

   appointed in manifold sun blindness,

lies frogless. Hard droppings dot, dock and yard

   conjoined, in the could-be-worse nursing home;

flock’s short one goose left to toddle and squawk.

   These glasses magnify grandma’s eyes, stack

faded life vests in the haunted boathouse,  

   reflections on the iris. These vignettes

float, save me from one and only visit.