Ahead on my sidewalk path
a tourist—so annoyed
even his beard seems vexed—
stands too lost

to take another step;
and would rather I be of help
than to tell him he is
all of us.

The older I get, the more often
I quickly walk downtown,
reach our high school hangout
and—before I can go inside—
Hoppy, waiting for me,
rushes out the door and says
let's go to the record store,
check out the new releases—

and sure enough we find
the latest Woody Herman
or Stan Kenton 78s
that our hot hands carry to
a listening booth—where we let
the blaring trumpets take us
someplace beyond this day
or year or any year.

No matter where I move to,
town or suburb or city,
I see, just down the block,
a house exactly the same
as my boyhood home, though now
the windows are always dark.
Yet, even so,
I see
my mother, father and sister
lurking inside that house—
all of them drained pale-cheeked
by the deep depression that clung
to them like a cureless disease
day after week after month
until, with open arms,
they welcomed death.
I know, too,
while they listlessly drift from room
to silent room, they wait
to hear the doorbell ring
and then, after letting me in,
lock the door behind me.