The Sweater


In the park, I choose to wear a pea green sweater, 
a bulky cardigan with stretched-out sleeves
I would never have thought of putting on
thirtysome years ago, even twenty,
but how I would ever know that 
had I not taken the time to rest here, 
beneath the slumping trees and years,
is beyond the reach of any young man. 
The time to take out a mechanical pencil
and small Tibetan pad, snag the lead
on the loose-knit, curse not half 
as vehemently as I might have in 1979,
if I only had the nerve to wear it then.




Waterfall
For Maria on her birthday, 2016

I stop before the waterfall,
where we once thought time stood still,
and realized it has rolled on, too. 

I won’t be moving on much longer— 
my phone calls will end, whispers
and shadows drown out the rippling sounds. 

They say I’m riding on one last wave,
but that’s hard for me to believe.
I walk the walk I always walk— 

confident, sure-footed, uphill.  
I won’t slip and don’t care if I do. 
I’d marry you all over again if I could.