Our Walk

gong and clang and hi-hat hiss
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."