After a bottle of wine,
a little smoke,
watching "Sixteen Candles"
with a foolish grin on my face,
I remembered Marie Pinchet
my freshman year
behind Sherman Field
in the grass
along the river.
I turn officially old
in two months,
double nickel, 55.
All the oats I've planted
have long since been gathered.
Yet the smell of the marshes,
and the bells of the fishing boats
foretold a life near water.
My one love, the woman
that holds my heart,
has always been the sea.
Like my good friend said once,
Drowning is a sailor's only way home.
Marie, ahh, Marie...
The sky was so blue that day.

The wind, one day...

The trees outside my window
animatedly discuss the wind.
I used to like wind.
Now it drains me.
Too many storms, I guess,
and no place to hide from them.
I watch the kids and their kites
exploring hidden boundaries.
I kind of miss when wind was
the highway for my soul.
The wind passes my window,
thumb extended, going where it will.
I close the drapes, turn on my lamp,
and listen to the stories of the wind.

Lately, after a glass of wine,
I've been getting reckless.
I'll call a woman up
say
Hi it's me
and
remember that time
and
when you did that
and finally
Why didn't we

and an hour later we hang up

Then there are the dreams of the road.
A soul of concrete, a diesel soul,
a twelve speed soul, that’s how I rolled.
I hate that it calls and I must
leave the call unanswered.
Ah, time.
You many miles.
I have the heart of a Troubadour,
the flesh of a stone.