The Jaunt

In party outfits, two by two or one by one

(I was expected to go along as well),

They step up the steep gangplank, hands on

Metal railing. The river, youthful also

In midnight blue with sunset-tinted wavelets,

Lets them borrow its broad back

For an evening’s unhurried round trip,

Which won’t interrupt old river habits for long.

Not the chop and churn of big propellers

As the rocking stern heaves off and wheels fanwise

Into the current, nor a short blast from the stack,

Not the up-tempo drumbeat of the black-tie combo

Nor an answering fusillade of popped corks, not geysers

Of laughter pitched flagpole high among flailing

Limbs out on the polished floor nor the mixed

Babble of sideline comment over bubbling glasses

Can shake that seamless imperturbability. . . .

When the springy net of sparkles has shrunk and faded

Out of sight, the last rough throb been coaxed

From the tenor sax’s frog-in-the-throat, the final

Needling tremolo of the clarinet been wrapped up

In distance, suddenly it is strange to be here

In lilac afterglow with trout-leap and mayfly. . . .

Strange, too, how our part of the river continues

To trundle along its tonnages of water and motion.

The unused ticket spins to the ground.

As much as any person not two people can

I miss the jaunt, for just this one hour of dusk. . . .

Then, a veiled echo, my name called as I turn

To answer, eyes adjusting to where we are

At the pivot of night, the cusp of light.

Light enough to feel our way back to the grove

Of alders along the curving path beside the river;

Light enough to recognize my life when I see it,

Going in its direction, more or less at the same pace.

Source: Autobiographies (Counterpoint Press, 1992)