In His Era (An Original Thursday Poem)

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
no.)

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
sight-unseen
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
next.

I am not creeping up
on a half a century
unplanned,
writing poetry at night
on a public bus.

Or fighting a lingering battle with death,
and losing.

Or perhaps I am.
Perhaps we all are.

Photo of the Day – March 31, 2011

Photo title: When’s This Damn Thing Gonna Move?

Fruita, Colorado

Quote of the day: “The big question is whether you are going to be able to say a hearty yes to your adventure.”  –  Joseph Campbell