When I was 20, I wrote poetry because I was 20.
When I was 40, I wrote poetry because I was a poet. — Donald Hall
All my music comes from those days with him.
That season we discovered dobro, dulcimer, and Dylan.
Even then, his fingers were instantly intimate with any instrument.
From him, I learned to distinguish four-string from five-string banjo.
Once, he got all excited about a wine bottle on my porch
because the neck made the perfect slide for blues.
Then we were all hormone stimulating energy that never slept.
At less than 20, we thought everyone was touched by the same gold.
We poured voices and music into every attic and basement.
We thought everyone heard voices in their head.
We thought everyone would listen.
Now, we hear the echo of questions asked at each curb.
The opaque visage of each season’s notes clamors a compass.
This thing clamped to our shoulders,
pushing us through doors,
is it for shedding or swallowing?
What to leave?
Dissolving sneakerprints on the snow?
This winter was not as solid as last
and will soon pass to warmer lawns.
When to leave?
I think I’ll go soon,
but I’m looking for the best way to cross
Easton Avenue without slipping my shoes
into the mucky curbside slush puddles.
Some forms of water seem harder to traverse.
It’s so so easy for me to land in London
or to just stay in the shower and not notice the weather.
Why is it easier to hovercraft across the channel to Calais
than to cross this New Brunswick street to my red Acura?
I did not think this familiar sidewalk would bear obstacles
when I took my papers from the table.
But, I’ll be nauseous if I go back inside the cafe
to the bitter crank of coffee, congregants, and cappuccino.
I wait on the edge of this puddle
for someone else to build a bridge,
for some Sir Walter Raleigh to throw down his cape.
It isn’t going to happen.I calculate trajectory, inertia, torque, ballast, and ballet.
While I analyze, traffic finds my puddle
and pastes icy plops on my pants.
The poem that went from my head to my hand
leaves my numbing fingers.
With silent grief and panic, I watch the wet do its work.
The ink that shaped my words bleeds into street gray.
Tomorrow, it will be a rag edge of pulp under iced sewage.
What more will I lose if I wait for the perfect path?
I’ve been here before.
Here in the letting go space.
Abandoning house and husband.
Wondering about wrists and razor blades.
With a bath of blood and clots to loose an egg and live,
monthly, I prove I am my own legacy.
Greg Stier sang the night I graduated high school.
Now, he’s a collector, a player’s player, a husband, a father.
At 40, in different bodies, we ask the same questions.
What to leave?
Not the guitars Greg.
Not the classic Gibson, Les Paul, Fender, or Martin.
When you die, your children will sell them for beer change.
Mark your time with the music you put
in the river of space between the strings.
When to leave?
The largest redwoods germinate only on scorched ground
because it is the most fertile for these giants.
At 40, we know that when you ask these questions,
you already know the answer.
Leave now, after the audition.
Leap now, before your joints are frozen with arthritis.
Let your eyesight fade before your vision.