Port Chester in the morning
has a quiet, blue-grey light,
the stillness of the river
nearly glints.
They said that this was Springdale,
some tradesmen and a mill,
a florist and fishmonger side-by-side
a Catholic cemetery ringing Darien
and the train horn ubiquitous
no matter where you stand.
The closed and dingy now familiar
with the sun moved to a nearby town
and I a piece of driftwood
on a slate-blank foamy tide.
The church is wrapped in scaffold nets
like some kind of cocoon,
the only thing renewed
across the plank and shingle skyline.
I should add to my "to-do" list "grieve"
but memories pass on their own schedule
like tree-buds re-awaken
outside of time.
Trying to will these people
of the Cape Cod cul-de-sacs
to be somehow less selfish
only showed how selfish I can be
to expect unnatural things
from human nature.
Where the wave lands
I can't know,
for to let go
and somehow float
beyond the wake
is gift enough;
no ships to clutter up my view
and redirect my hopes
from the purity of the horizon,
the endless catapult of clouds,
and a sun that's always closer
than the ghosts that pass for faces
in the crowd.
