On the Hudson

Having lost
my cell phone, your number, any chance of
immediately recovering them,
I walk down to the old, trusty Hudson
to toss in earfulls of youngtalk
that will influence some butterfly or something
and make a little wave in your beer. Then, suddenly,
I give up on that idea, it
will never happen. Forgetful of geography,
instead, and having spent too much time with a toddler,
I will build a skiff
to haul me from Hudson to Mississippi to
Ohio . . .
and I'll buy that beer, yes
I'll buy that beer
and the next
and pump the jukebox full
of songs that make of
night a common destiny
for a little while.
I wonder what we will talk
about then
in that abhorrent vacuum
where we bang our fists
to prove heaven is earth is
empty, and can we
have another?