I first saw you walking along
Huntington Beach in the summer of ‘73
wearing your new black hat
and a poached smile,
or was it down the alley of 7th street,
back in ‘66
that you stopped and choked out
a grin before fading in the neon light,
disappearing in a cloud.
I know I’ve seen the gray waist-coat in Cincinnati,
or Cleveland,
surely you were there catching a bus around 5 p.m. on a Tuesday.
You didn’t see me getting off the plane at Chicago O’Hare,
on the night of November 24th, 1984
but you almost stepped on my foot
and I tripped over yours in Atlanta in March.
You were eating a slice of pepperoni pizza from Antonia’s,
thinking about visiting your parents in Richmond, Virginia.
I heard someone calling your name at a coffee shop in New York,
but the voice was lost in the slurping of Latte.
You walked away,
walking along the Mississippi looking for Sam smoking
his old corn-cob pipe, watching the white clouds dance above
the old steamboats.
I’m envious of your freedom.
I spent a day reading Thoreau in a park in East Lansing
seven years ago,
do you know why the black ants won?
The waitress in Minneapolis could possibly tell you,
but you only ordered two eggs over medium
with a slice of buttered toast,
or was that an English muffin?
I prefer mine with grape jelly.
Did I tell you we won last night?
I thought I saw you in the stands cheering.
It looked like you, only older –
I can only guess where the old black hat went,
it’s probably blowing down Lexington Avenue.
