A Young Man Waits

Down the ravine behind the empty house

the young man sits against the wall of old books.

His future lies like the fresh snowfall

in that secret place where he first fell in love.

From the estate up above

the bell tolls

twelve.

He hears the mice dance, he hears the eagles snore

as the coyotes sing their freedom songs.

The orchestra plays throughout the night

and her call for him never comes.

He steps from the wall with a broken sob

that brings despair to the animal band

He holds his bags and slides back to the night

like a ghost in a foreign land.

In the estate up above the girl starts at his sound,

pulls close to her husband,

falls back asleep.

My heart longs for Spain

for Goya in El Prado

and the feeling of belonging

in the park of Madrid;

for familiar Barcelona,

where Gaudi’s vision

makes you think that God might exist;

where the removed English speakers

gather at Queen Victoria’s

drinking and smoking and losing their minds.

My heart leaps for Italy

for the smell

and the heat

and the feeling of family

as we navigated the streets

of summer in Venice,

for the quiet of Tuscany,

where the plains are interrupted

by hilltopped cities

with names like Montepulciano,

for the excitement of the World Cup

and a fake soccer ball

that brought four brothers together in joy for the last time.

My heart aches for Peru,

for the tias and the tios

and fake tias and fake tios

all talking over each other

and laughing as one,

for the altitude sickness

we all caught in Cuzco,

and the terrifying ride

up the mountain to Macchu Picchu,

for that deep ancestral feeling that this is where you came from.

My heart calls for Wyoming,

for the sunrise over the mountains

and the Western American feeling

of galloping on a horse,

for the clouds across the prairie

and the foggy freezing

summer mornings and nights.

My heart cries for New Hampshire,

for that house in the woods where life doesn’t matter,

for the fish in the pond and the dog running free,

for the birch and the pine and the view of the mountain,

and that spooky feeling that you get here alone.

My heart smiles for Orleans,

for that beach we called Skaket,

with the terror of the eels

and the innocence of youth.

My heart starts for Needham,

for that town that we hated

until we understood the meaning

of the idea of home,

where we loved and we lost and we all came together

and we knew we wouldn’t have

to face death alone.

My heart waits for you,

for your smile and your laugh

and your calm understanding,

for the day that will come when we finally meet.

Sunday Morning News on the Last Day of Summer

His words struck the boys like a car on a slippery night

crashing into their lives and destroying what they thought they knew.

As the news sunk in the rain began to fall

and the thunder of their pain grew into a storm.

Innocence had been killed too early

the victim of a moment’s lapse.

The words of the youngest would haunt them forever,

the first words spoken, the voice in the darkness.

“Daddy, who will be my godfather now?”