A man sees his father in the distance, 
bags dangling from each hand.
He watches for a long time as the old one
slopes toward him in the late afternoon.
When they meet in the middle of the road, 
the father lowers his head, 
the son reaches out to take the bags, 
which bend with their heavy cartons and fruit. 
An owl perches in the only tree 
in this urban landscape,
a huge bird with gray feathers and eyes 
like black coins.The street is deserted, 
though it is nearly five o’clock, 
and the sky has darkened with rain. 
Soon the thunder begins, then streaks
of lightning tear scars through sheets of cloud.
                        

I walked the bridge at night, following a dead poet 
as he wandered past clocks and chickens, 
as he loitered above the black river in his threadbare coat. 
He must have known I was there, but shadows loomed 
above our heads. I don’t think he feared me on that cold 
night of rain. We went to a bar just off the main street, 
and I trailed him to a rickety table in the back. 
Wait, he said, and slipped a matchbook underneath 
the short leg. Now the table felt secure. 
I placed my hands near the ashtray. 
He flipped a coin. Your round, he said, 
and as I moved toward the bar, he opened a book 
and slipped inside. I brought two beers, 
then went back for whiskey shots,
Bring some pretzels too, he said, but I couldn’t 
reach them without forcing my way between 
two lumberjacks, who looked hostile and drunk. 
A waitress appeared by my side. 
She brought us steaks and mushrooms 
and Brussels Sprouts. Her hair was up in a ponytail, 
and when I asked her name, she began to sing in French. 
Oh, I said. That’s right, she answered, I’m engaged, but not to him. 
The poet had mustard on his shirt. His shoes looked wet, 
and it felt as though he had been lost for many years. 
Congratulations, I said. When is the wedding? 
Oh, she said, in about a hundred years, when he cuts 
his way through all those thorns and offers me another way to die.