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In His Era
(In abstract memory of the late Clark Wang. Rest in peace, Clark.)
It was last week we found ourselves in Cat’s Cradle
After sangria on the too-cold rooftop of Papagayo’s
Waiting for the music.
We danced and smiled and bloomed
And Zan lusted after me
And I laughed and said no.
(I learned months later in a Boston parking lot
that he had a wife and six kids. I was glad I had said
Sarah and I always wound up our nights
at the Continental Cafe, even when they were close to closing.
Coffee and Perrier
and talk of darkness in the lights of our souls.
Tonight, I indulge in Irish Whiskey with Christine
in a too-loud pub.
We talk of everything, and I lust
after her 20-something son,
forgetting how old I am.
In my heart’s age,
my mind’s years,
I am still sitting on a wooden bench
at Cat’s Cradle,
marvelling at the music
as Trina and the band warm up,
and wondering who will
walk through the door
and what will happen
I am not creeping up
on a half a century
writing poetry at night
on a public bus.
Or fighting a lingering battle with death,
Or perhaps I am.
Perhaps we all are.