the reporter

it started out so--
just so.
by a rainy muse, by sharp lightning
outside those hotel bay windows;
i sat and stared, friend.
lights down while others slept,
from eight floors up i looked down:
scattered cars on a patchwork lot, the tram
every four minutes, looming cranes
pulling grandeur from the asphalt.
the night slipped on around me,
so still, content, so at--
peace, was it?
such careless peace!--love! o love!
where are we, what have we done?
i left all that behind! left the lunches with scarlet eyes
and flirting sexuality: she called me pet names,
though like gay Joey, not for affection
but for skill, for trade, for business.
and o! oh love, i ran the other way,
from the highstory hotel muse,
i traded that hard soulful rain for snow,
and love: maybe i was wrong,
but there's more to life--
something deep and rooted, a putting
of shoulders to the wheel.
but with me still, in memory-laced eyes
that sodden muse still watches trams,
every four minutes:
rushing here from somewhere,
and off again so--
just so.




2/23/09