Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Up the Hollow


Midnight, on the way home
walking uphill from the
bar where the music
cut to the viscera
far beyond the day's
ennui and minutiae
of contracts and salaries
grades and plan-book
ledger lines--
who's here, who's not
what they earn--
and life opens up
along Sheridan Hollow
this desolate gash of canyon
in the heart of Albany--
and I am a dog
marking his territory
loving that alone-ness
of big spaces for crowds
now empty and quiet
with the hum of lighted
kiosks and halos over streets
angels or not it doesn't matter
as linden leaves dance in
the warm October air
and it's a foreign country
as soon as routine is broken
and it's a Thursday night
several pints deep now
and my feet know the way
as I move like a fugitive
picking up and leaving behind
little bits here and there
down Dove Street across Washington
a quick skip as the relay clicks and
lights change for midnight traffic
of cabs—blond waves crash
into the front seat and a
mummy-figure sweeps past
in a bright bus whoosh
and I find my way home--
not lonely just alone.

A Letter to My Students

I don’t say it enough, but I care about you. Each of you. That’s why I’m here. It’s too much work to do it for the money, so there must be ...