The Old Mule

Multnomah

After seven years
we met for beers on a
spruce deck behind
the Station Inn, western
Oregon. Your home
was in the rocks then,
beneath sequoias, sea
strained moss, a perch
of teak and novels. Green
eyes, still green eyes. At
eight we stood with a sea
before us, you told me how
you felt. Sea lions slipped
from stacks into surf. I put
my hand on your jeans, tried
to hold you in my coat. You
moved away, held my fingers
in your fist, told me again
of the bus that departs
every morning at nine.

The Fourth Day in Paris

I watched rain from a sleeping
porch, fall leaves wet and bright --
everything moves, everything turns.

I long for the scent of your clothes. I want
you back here now. Inside the white sheets,
the dry warm bed, everything unravels.

Dull green Thursday. The burn of pain.
I called from the roof of the Hotel Paix
two weeks ago. You said come home,
there are things to say.

I left a message
on the recorder, please call

then went out with a heavy coat
to the store.

The garden must be
cut back and the water
turned off.

It is the first of
November, and I hope
you come home soon.