palm heel slap, and fingers drum
my hand slides down,
I make the metal handrail sing
from rail to rung
some bad world music rhythm king
I crown myself, as I walk down
the steep decline -
this was our walk,
I'm walking down without you now
the river runs with slanted light
the railroad bridge -
that spans the gap from cliff to cliff
- is painted gold and rose,
and all between is mapped
by memories of every path we walked
the quaint and painted ways,
in lines that crossed and overlapped
and intertwined
a thousand days
in this gay seaside village town.
Like postcards from a kinder year
- though I am bitter from the end,
I can't help write: "Wish you were here."
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